You tell me you are not a racist.
You are an Arizonian in your own right—
in your white flawless rights
in your white lawless plights against
the native skin you single out, marring your high-class
etiquette—your Forefathers’ land, your America,
the land of the free, where vigilantes
in invisible white hoods
terrorize me in Georgia, in
Texas, and in California.
Look at me. No, really, look
at me—directly into my eyes.
But without the sunglasses, without the gun,
without the handcuffs, without the whip, without the
wooden or metal baton, without the water hose,
without the DDT, without napalm.
And when you look at me, notice
that you see me through borrowed memories
of our ancestors, haunting your present twisted
state of mind—suffering
from that pathology called
race that in your eyes makes me
look perfectly inhuman.
You are the germinated grandchild of Slavery . . .
of the Trail of Tears . . . of the Chinese Exclusion Act . . . of
Operation Wetback . . . of Viêt Nam. . . of Japanese Interment
Camps, Proposition 187 . . . Operation
Gatekeeper . . .Weapons of Mass Destruction . . .
the Patriot Act . . . of SB 1070.
You want to believe in your own
fantasy—your own twisted logical
fallacy—you are América, “The Beautiful.”
¡Y sin acento!
You always write words that make
you look as the victimized—always the
victim—in a muddled pond of
racist rhetoric: “White revolution
is the only solution.”
But who is really stealing your
job? Your money? Who is really shattering your
You are 1070—a legacy of hate. You
relish and smirk when you see your
labor: when the handcuffs click
and the jailhouse locks,
when you single out and say, “Hey you!
Over there!” and label and then tag colored people.
Selective seeing and hearing
has made of you a simpleton
who wears blinds and carries
a magnifying glass like
“Round them cowboy!”
childhood play’s not over for
you. Your cowboy and Indian
patterns never left you! You are the good guy,
the self-righteous ambassador and protector of Arizona—
of your country—my world, from
sea to shining sea. I am the son,
the daughter, the father, the mother,
the grandmother, the sister, the teacher,
the carpenter, the gardener,
the architect, your potential
son-in-law or daughter. I am as free
as the air that you breathe.
reduced me to a thing—incapable
of feeling emotion like a shipped and caged
African slave—unconnected to this
country that serves you
on a silver platter, so you can see
those shiny white teeth reflected
in silverware before you
take a bite in your sweat-picked
tomatoes and lettuce, USDA Grade A
meat from those “illegal aliens,” mis paisanos,
working in Colorado and then you think:
life is good. Then you toast and sip your California
Yes, of course Arizona I’m
beginning to see your master
plan brewing. No illegal immigrants (other
than white-complected ones,
preferably of European decent),
no ethnic studies, no accents.
POOF! Como los judíos.
(April 29, 2010)