When I took my job as an immigrant rights advocate nearly two years ago, I knew it'd be tough. I would be doing this work as part of a faith organization and knowing the politics of the laity as a member this church, I would have the difficult task of not only having to convince people in power of the moral necessity and urgency of our cause, but often also have to speak to my brothers and sisters in the pews. I'd have to confront the fact that many people who share my faith do not necessarily see my whole humanity.Read More
It happens quickly
And I’ve never been quick-witted.
I slept fearful but still
In the vision
Of us being close together.
Prickly to the touch
And tension thick as molasses
I woke up to a gaping chasm
And I can’t find a way around
How far away are we?
How far away have we been?
Was it always like this?
Will it always be?
Why are so many fathers in sci fi
Assholes? Like, just terrible, terrible men?
Vader sliced his son’s hand off and
Starlord’s Dad tried to turn him into a battery
Oscar Wao’s dad was never there.
And I guess I ask these things because
I watch these movies and read these books
And wish that, just once, Luke might say,
“I might’ve beat the Emperor quickly
If I had two hands!”
Or Oscar might finally find his father and ask,
“Why didn’t you stick around
And teach me how to throw a punch?”
That, just once, the chips might hold their
Rolling stones still enough
To see them
Force them to reckon with the Dad-shaped holes
In their personal narratives.
To hold them accountable
For the rest of us.
Brgy. Batis, San Juan, Metro Manila
Dad had just got done unfurling the
Giant roll of firecrackers.
A roll so big it looked like the red cousin to our 40 foot
Garden hose slung over his shoulder.
He gave the thumbs up
And then you lit the fuse.
The heat from the light
Forced us the shield our eyes
And we yelped with
Amazement at the miniature explosions
Happening like gunpowder dominoes.
It’d be 4 hours until the first news reports
Of accidental deaths and massive dismemberment
And all of it on show with either dogged determination
To assessing the real risk of such actions
Or understanding the fact that even if I’d wanted to
I couldn’t look away
And neither would the rest of us.
Outside in the portico
Our Lolo - well, not our Lolo
But that’s what we call everyone
Our Lolo’s age - held the
String on this contraption:
Like the top of a crab cage
But it was our claws stretching up
Towards the aguinaldos tethered to it
Which is ironic because we are Aguinaldos
And inside, our Titas who aren't our titas
Served up tequila and karaoke
And said: “This is our tradition!”
Holding up shot glasses
Commanding us to toast.
I took a beat
One worthy of the 15 years
It’d taken to get here
In the marrow of my bones
That I was home.
After Clint Smith III
This morning I received a call from
A woman at the end of her rope:
A husband threatened with deportation
And a newborn just brought home
A car just impounded
And rent nearly due
And her other child crying
And the groceries nearly used up.
Our tears are shed for the patriots draped in flags
Boots dusty and tracking sand from a foreign land
Our tears are shed for the sentinels behind badges
Working long nights in neighborhoods we’ve long abandoned
Our tears are shed for the incandescent ones
Who’ve made us laugh or cry or whoop or holler at screens
On fields on courts on canvas on pages
But her story was not nearly American enough
For us to grieve.
"They don’t love you like I love you." - Karen O
But what to make of these new ones here
Who only seek to fashion your heart after theirs?
What can I do w the rippling of envy
The seething of anger as I watch them
Tear and rip at your garments
Tsk-ing at your hand-me down shirt -
The one I found on that day the clouds suddenly opened up from above And wasn’t it just like me to have forgotten the umbrella
So I picked up the only thing I could afford:
A 1983 CIF Championship track shirt
For some high school we didn’t attend
But it somehow all felt right.
And though I’d outgrown it I couldn’t throw it out
So you kept it.
Can they remember the time they looked on you
From the 105 interchange - the highest spot in our neighborhood. Lights twinkling
And stoplights churning and, yeah, my
Heart racing in the mix of a fear of
Heights I hadn’t quite realized and the sadness
Of my first heartbreak.
I went to you first.
You held me there.
And now I don’t know what to do
As these people set up their own
Homes inside of you
While I look outside knowing I’d
Loved you first.
It happened, I think, at Ayala Triangle
In the back of a cab that said *Aircon* like
All the others. A necessity on a typically muggy
December day in Manila. Throngs of people
Released for lunch,
Moving in-between the idling
Cars that make Roxas, Makati, and
Ayala look more like that Disneyland parking lot
We'd lost our car in during our first trip together
Than the three main arteries
Trisecting the heart of
Homeland's financial district.
I wish I could bring all of this home to you.
The hanging lanterns in the garden trees
Gleaming bright white against the
Verdant leaves in the sun.
The sharp smell of diesel mixing with the
Sweet scent of steamed rice
From the restaurants crammed with workers.
Cataloging the cart with the daffodil painted on the front
Selling the best *espasol* I'd ever had
On the way to Tagaytay
And the street vendors I’d met near Araneta
With these barbecue sticks laid thick with
That sugary-savory combination
Unique to our people
And the Sari Sari store my aunt owns
Where they all say it’s past time for me to
Find a wife.
I choke back the melancholy of
Your absence with the silent promise to
Bring you back someday.
And so, it was there,
In the back of the cab
Stopped in work day traffic at the foot of
The Child of the Philippines
That I realized I loved you.
For The DREAMERS
I see his pained face,
Sweat beading at his temples
And muscles rippling under his
Navy blue hoodie.
Impractical fashion to hoist
Such a load but, then,
When I was his age I wore
What I wanted, too.
And now he’s stuck in that
Heat colluding with the gravity of his
Burden to force the clothing to
Stick to his skin. I’m slightly better off in
My moisture-wicking material,
But my Burden still chafes.
His eyes, brown and
Warm and worn,
I’m sorry, brother,
For the yoke on you. We, your elders,
Should have known -
Should have done -
We should have raised our voice
And when that failed, Hell.
Your shackle was forged by our
Silence and your lot was cast by
Our red hands.
And as we labor here,
I pray our revolution
Brings liberty before
Your young eyes fade.
It didn’t come haloed in gold
But it felt like it.
Warm in my hands
As it was given
Or maybe I just imagined that
But it felt like a
The number of places after the comma
Struck me then: we’re not
Going to worry about rent tonight.
We can breathe with our bellies loose
And sleep with the AC on
And get the steak instead of the ground chuck
And maybe you won’t have to worry
About falling asleep on the drive home.
So, on Sunday night, while rocking my newborn to sleep, I felt bereft because I know what it’s like to be called chink and Jap and to have people slant their eyes at me. I felt bereft because the governing body of this sport that I love had the opportunity to send a firm message that this behavior is not only unacceptable, but that the presence of people like me - including the very people they employ - are welcome and protected in this space. I felt bereft because it wasn’t the first time. And it won’t be the last.Read More
I envision you in the glow of the rising sun.
Framed in gold and hands turned up
To receive these gifts and dispense them to
Black and brown faces meant to
But denied it
Too often outside
Between Prairie and Imperial.
At Inglewood and El Segundo.
Saved for us ethereal
The blessings and sorrows, trials and narrow
Escapes - we’re scraped up but safe. Tomorrow
Was never promised us but you
Held us close.
Nurtured us to full grown artists -
Tending us to full bloom harvest.
You loved us; imperfect us.
You loved us. Hometown gloried us.
You loved us. And we love you.
Job? Yeah, I knew him.
Nice guy, I guess. It’s just...
Look, I’ve gotta be honest,
We all make mistakes, right?
And, I mean, all things being equal
He *was* vindicated. So, I
Mean, you’ve gotta understand:
Eli, Bil, and I were just calling it like we saw it!
And, ok, he turned out to be innocent
But how could *we* have known?
If you ask me, he’s just
A bit sensitive.
What? I’m sorry -
I missed what you said.
We don’t speak anymore.
I think about the movement now...Read More
These hands are tired,
Friend. Weathered after
Years of picking
Under the Delano sun.
A life spent setting your
Table that I might set mine.
This back is broken,
Friend. Weary and sore after
Decades stooped over fields
Of spinach and vines of grapes.
My health given for 38 cents a pound
To get my children educated at 50k a year.
I am too old,
Friend. With knees meant for
Treading on soft, moist earth,
Now creaky and sallow
From kneeling in dirt - in the shadow
Of your benign allyship.
Who will do the labor?
You value this work
But miss Me.
A history left across the ocean
Of schools and books and family and
Out here, I feel a shift;
Familiar, but in the way of an old friend
I haven’t seen in a while.
Solo drives through deserted roads
Have a unique feel:
Therapeutic, calming, healing,
But this feels different
Because the only thing I’ve broken
Is the physical proximity to you
Our little one.
There was a time when this
Made sense to me:
A life spent living
Out of a suitcase
And staring out from
Behind a steering wheel.
When once I thought ‘itinerant’ and ‘ascetic’
Were synonymous with ‘prophetic.’
A life spent away.
But hearts, I’ve learned, are healed
In other ways. And ‘missionary’ doesn’t
Have to mean a lonely death
On the doorstep of
A far-off place.
I am restored by the familiar shape
Of your body next to mine.
Even as it has changed along our
Nine month wait for the arrival of
Our newest member.
I am healed by the soft to LOUD, s l owtofast
Chime of your laugh that
Comes in response to your own
I am found in the warm
Recognition, the softening of your iris,
As I walk through the door.
30 hours away was once a small ask.
It is now on the edge of too much.
I love this memory of you:
Head tilted, hand on hip
Other arm around my wife.
Easy, free, loved.
It doesn’t capture your voice
And that booming laugh of yours: Hearty, full, and lilting like a songbird
Through a megaphone.
I miss it.
You came to my wedding
And twirled my wife around.
I hugged your child
And we all made plans to visit each other.
I miss you.
You used to talk scripture
And how much you liked my wedding Barong
And goad me about the Dodgers.
I miss us.
They come for me
And I see you there, still.
Your mouth doesn’t move
And your eyes cast down.
Their hands grip firm,
Face so close, their breath mists into mine.
I’m being hauled away.
My wife, in that dress you said you loved
Has already been placed in the van.
We pull away from the home
Where we’d hosted you and your husband
On your trip back to California.
You’re there, like Lot’s wife
And I’m still waiting
As you shrink from view
For words that never come.
I see the parcel drifting
Lazily against the burning sky.
The whites of the parachute
Contrasting with the purples and reds
And yellows of the sunset.
Death, it seems, will ride in not
On a stallion, but like a hellish parade float:
Taking its sweet time.
I put down down my rake and search
For you. Your black hair flowing out
From under the sun hat I always tease
You about. Your back to me, delicate
Shoulders taut and focus concentrated
On the weeds choking your beloved orchids.
I touch your back, ask you to drop
Your spade and gather your familiar hands
I never want to forget.
The parcel has dropped from view
And you look at me in that mix
Of puzzlement and mischief I fell for
All those years ago. As the sky
Fills with thunderous noise and unnatural
Light, I keep my eyes on you.
No, I never want to forget.
And as our world collapses around us
In a hail of earth and glass,
I pray you know you are l-
It occurs to me, while you tumble unseen
In your mother's belly, that I am deathly afraid for you.
La posición de nuestra Iglesia Católica sobre inmigración desde el principio ha sido una de bienvenida. El Pentateuco, es el nombre hebreo conferido a los primeros cinco libros de la biblia, caracteriza docenas de referencias de acoger al extranjero y está contenido como un acto de misericordia por Jesus en Mateo capítulo 25 (veinticinco). Además, nosotros entendemos que si no fuera por la hospitalidad y caridad de la gente de Egipto, ni la sagrada familia con el niño Jesus ni Moisés quien era un menor de edad sin acompañamiento, hubieran alcanzado la edad de su ministerio público. La razón por la cual el mandamiento de Dios de recibir y tratar al extranjero es con una bienvenida fue simple: La gente de Israel también una vez fueron extranjeros. Del mismo modo, muchos americanos tienen raíces de todas partes del mundo y nuestra experiencia ha sido pulida y fortalecida por ese encuentro cultural. En las historias de los irlandeses huyendo de unahambruna, los chinos huyendo una revolución, los somalíes huyendo de la guerra y los jóvenes de Centro América huyendo una violencia extrema de pandillas, vemos paralelos de nuestra sagrada familia y a moises. Hacemos memoria las grandes obras que podrían no haber sido logradas si no fuera por la generosidad, misericordia, y la bienvenida extendida al extranjero en Egipto.
A nuestra comunidad inmigrante, por favor sepan que su Iglesia y su obispo esta con ustedes. Nosotros continuamos defendiendo y orando por una reforma inmigratoria misericordiosa, compasiva, y justa tanto como un alejamiento de pólizas que crean los ambientes que obligan a los migrantes de abandonar a su querida patria en busca de paz, estabilidad, y mejores oportunidades. Estamos conscientes de sus cargas como muchos de nosotros, yo incluido, somos inmigrantes que caminamos por el mismo camino, navegamos los mismos mares, o volamoscruzando alos mismos cielos como tú lo hiciste. Tus cargas, sabemos, son muchas y nosotros esperamos poder caminar contigo ahora y siempre para poder hacer esa carga ligera.
Entonces oramos que el Espíritu descienda y permita una transformación radical en los corazones de nuestra comunidad:
- Que nuestros hermanos y hermanas inmigrantes puedan sentir bienvenidos y en casa en su Madre Iglesia.
- Que las autoridades gubernamentales puedan encontrar soluciones para proporcionar alivio a nuestra comunidad migrante.
- A los que tienen miedo o se openen a los indocumentados, que puedan ver a Cristo en estas personas y busquen, como nos dice el Papa francisco, construir puentes no paredes.