Richard Blanco![]() Starting with the words "made in Cuba, assembled in Spain, and imported to the United States," Richard Blanco's biographic information on his webpage points to the multiculturalism that informs his poetry. Recognized for his writing as early as the 1980s, he recently attained broad attention as the invited poet to President Obama's second inauguration where he read a piece composed especially for the event. The following poem, "AMÉRICA," explores the image of Cubans meeting Thanksgiving.
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AMÉRICA – Richard Blanco
I.
Although Tía Miriam boasted she discovered at least half-a-dozen uses for peanut butter-- topping for guava shells in syrup, butter substitute for Cuban toast, hair conditioner and relaxer-- Mamà never knew what to make of the monthly five-pound jars handed out by the immigration department until my friend, Jeff, mentioned jelly. II. There was always pork though, for every birthday and wedding, whole ones on Christmas and New Year's Eves, even on Thanksgiving Day--pork, fried, broiled or crispy skin roasted-- as well as cauldrons of black beans, fried plantain chips and yuca con mojito. These items required a special visit to Antonio's Mercado on the corner of 8th street where men in guayaberas stood in senate blaming Kennedy for everything--"Ese hijo de puta!" the bile of Cuban coffee and cigar residue filling the creases of their wrinkled lips; clinging to one another's lies of lost wealth, ashamed and empty as hollow trees. III. By seven I had grown suspicious--we were still here. Overheard conversations about returning had grown wistful and less frequent. I spoke English; my parents didn't. We didn't live in a two story house with a maid or a wood panel station wagon nor vacation camping in Colorado. None of the girls had hair of gold; none of my brothers or cousins were named Greg, Peter, or Marsha; we were not the Brady Bunch. None of the black and white characters on Donna Reed or on Dick Van Dyke Show were named Guadalupe, Lázaro, or Mercedes. Patty Duke's family wasn't like us either-- they didn't have pork on Thanksgiving, they ate turkey with cranberry sauce; they didn't have yuca, they had yams like the dittos of Pilgrims I colored in class. |
IV.
A week before Thanksgiving I explained to my abuelita about the Indians and the Mayflower, how Lincoln set the slaves free; I explained to my parents about the purple mountain's majesty, "one if by land, two if by sea" the cherry tree, the tea party, the amber waves of grain, the "masses yearning to be free" liberty and justice for all, until finally they agreed: this Thanksgiving we would have turkey, as well as pork. V. Abuelita prepared the poor fowl as if committing an act of treason, faking her enthusiasm for my sake. Mamà set a frozen pumpkin pie in the oven and prepared candied yams following instructions I translated from the marshmallow bag. The table was arrayed with gladiolus, the plattered turkey loomed at the center on plastic silver from Woolworths. Everyone sat in green velvet chairs we had upholstered with clear vinyl, except Tío Carlos and Toti, seated in the folding chairs from the Salvation Army. I uttered a bilingual blessing and the turkey was passed around like a game of Russian Roulette. "DRY", Tío Berto complained, and proceeded to drown the lean slices with pork fat drippings and cranberry jelly--"esa mierda roja," he called it. Faces fell when Mamá presented her ochre pie-- pumpkin was a home remedy for ulcers, not a dessert. Tía María made three rounds of Cuban coffee then abuelo and Pepe cleared the living room furniture, put on a Celia Cruz LP and the entire family began to merengue over the linoleum of our apartment, sweating rum and coffee until they remembered-- it was 1970 and 46 degrees-- in América. After repositioning the furniture, an appropriate darkness filled the room. Tío Berto was the last to leave. |