I Didn’t Write This Poem for You
I was at the poetry workshop cuando les leí mi poesía
a poem sprinkled with words in Spanish
like chili powder on the fresh fruit slices of my English They said, “maybe you should translate more of your words because not everyone can understand you.“
I told them: I didn’t write this poem for you
I spoke Spanish before I spoke anything else
and while my father was learning English in a classroom I was learning it from my mom and Sesame St.
So maybe this poem is for Big Bird, Cookie Monster
and Oscar, who taught me it is ok to get mad when you’re misunderstood
I wrote it for my mom and her generation
punished in classrooms, made to kneel in corners
their mouths washed out with soap for speaking their mothers’ tongues
I wrote it for my father, who was proud when a white lady said
she couldn’t believe he was an immigrant because he hardly had an accent
I wrote it for my daughter, who gets top marks in math and science
yet struggles in Spanish class
I wrote it for my son, who asked me in disappointment
“Daddy, why didn’t you teach me Spanish? I’d be speaking two languages today”
I wrote it because when I was their age
I hid the fact that I understood the lunch ladies and janitors
because none of my G/T classmates would have ever talked to “those people”
So now I’m writing it for them
and their sons and their daughters and my tios and my tias
y toda la gente de mi barrio quienes trabajan en la labor
so they can pick the lettuce and tomatoes that go into your—taco salad?
Maybe…it’s for the Selenas out there who can sing “Como la flor…” but can’t speak the language they are singing
for Hispanics in Hollywood typecast as gang members, janitors pool-cleaners, landscapers, housekeepers
For el Chavo del Ocho, Univision 41,
all 108 restaurants in the great metropolitan area with “Jalisco” in their name
Los 43 de Ayotzinapa who still have not been found
12.4 million Latinos that did not vote in the last election
and the 30% border patrol agents who claim to be Hispanic, keeping their own cousins in cages but I sure as hell didn’t write it for you
It’s for anyone that’s ever been laughed at for saying sangwich or liberry or picza had their name butchered by some pinche gringo that didn’t even want to try because there is no escoos for that
It’s for being told to speak American, on this soil
where we rolled tortillas before we broke bread
There was a Santa Fe before there was a Plymouth Rock There was an El Paso before there was a Philadelphia
There was a San Antonio before there was a Washington DC
And I did not write this poem for you!
I wrote it for me
I wrote it for toda mi gente
Eddie Vega