Atolle
Every single morning
during my childhood
or so it seemed we would have
atolle, an mexican style oatmeal swimming inside
a large silvery pot with twin ear handles
squatted directly on top of the stove
red and yellow gas flames licking the lower sides of the base
as if the kettle were trying to tickle itself
into a heated frenzy
we never ate ice cold milk
poured into a wooden bowl waiting for a load of
dry mouth cereal laced with sugar
to sweeten up the start of another day
and the only time
we were supposed to eat
krusty kreme donuts
to nourish our bodies for the day
we got stuck instead with
day old pan dulce, mexican sweet bread
which was neither sweet
nor resembled a krusty kreme
and even when we had those
very special meat filled days
of mexican sausage or chorizo
mixing its red blood stained juices
with farm fresh yellow strips of eggs
and creating delicious chunks of meat-filled scrambled
to wrap your hot tortilla around
the next day was always… oatmeal atolle oatmeal atolle
“I hate atolle,
and eating oatmeal
this cold March morning in upstate Vermont
I had all but forgotten
winter school days waking up in Wisconsin.
when atolle cooking
arose those warm chest feelings
that simmered around my body hugging my insides.
It smells just like yesterday
My older brother Jesus said
the smell of ripe onions
always reminded him of summer
We’d start working early
in the six a.m. dark
on the Horner farm in Southern Wisconsin
while the dirt was still wet
from the sprinkled dew
rows of the bald white onions rested
beneath the soft soil we were told to pick them up
by the neck the way a cat
carries her litter
Shake the dirt off there round backs being careful not to tear
their long green ribbons
At fifteen cents a bushel
we thought we were smart
until we were caught trying to hide
large clumps of soil
near the bottom of the bushel basket
to make it fill easier.
Around eleven o’clock we became tired,
my father would say “this row here, will be the last one today”
so we would try to hurry and finish only to find
his story would change as we neared the row’s end
it doesn’t pay to work half a day
when I was twelve, my father told me
“this summer… this summer…. will be the last”
with a quarter squeezed in my hand
and a dirt-crusted smile on my face
I knew he was right
Years later
we drove on Highway 31, past the Horner farm
my father took a long glance out the car window
and said
back there back there near the corn bin is where I stayed
when I didn’t know better
Lost and Found Language
It started in 1949, when my oldest brother
came home from school in Racine, Wisconsin
after flunking kindergarten
It said in his report card that he 'spoke no English'
and he declared to my parents
that 'the rest of the kids have to learn to speak English
if we planned on staying here in the United States.'
so my parents lined up
the rest of the seven younger children
had us straighten up our posture
tilt our heads back
reached into our mouths with their hands
and took turns
slicing our tongues in half
making a simple, but unspoken contract that from then on
the parents would speak Spanish and their children would respond
back only in English
How do you lose a native language? does it get misplaced
in the recesses of your brain? or does it never quite stick
to the sides of your mind?
for me, it would always start with the question
from a brown faced stranger 'hables espanol? '
which means 'do you speak spanish? '
which meant if they had to ask me
if I spoke Spanish this was not going to be a good start
at having a conversation...
my face would start to get flushed
with redness and before
I had a chance to stammer the words 'I don't'
I could see it in their eyes looking at my embarrassed face
searching for an answer that they already knew
as I walked away
I knew what they were thinking
'Who is this guy? '
'How can he not speak his mother's tongue? '
'Where did he grow up anyways? Racine?
'Doesn't he have any pride in knowing who he is? 'or 'Where he came from? '
I tried to reply, but as the words in Spanish
floated down from my brain they got caught in my throat,
by the rocks of shame I had piled up in 20 years.
I spoke in half-tongue which was only good enough
to be misunderstood.
my future wife
taught me how
to speak spanish
mainly
by being Colombian
and secondly
by being patient
and thirdly
by not speaking english
I had already knew
the language of hands and love
which got me confident enough
to find the beautiful sounds of latin rhythms
that laid deep within me
and although
I still feel my heart jump a beat
when someone asks 'hables espanol? '
now the spanish resonates within me
and echos back 'si, y usted tambien? '
and today as I talk with the spanish speaking students
in my adult education classes
they can not only hear my mind
splash ancient spanish sounds off
my heart
but feel my words
my native tongue
once cut by my parents
out of necessity and survival
my half tongue
has finally grown back making me whole again.
Assassination Day
In the seventh grade in 1967,
playing football on the school playground
I heard that
Martin Luther King Jr.
had been assassinated,
Some kids cried,
other students didn’t know what to feel
I felt a little sad.
I headed up to the third floor classroom
for my fourth period class
at Washington Junior High School,
I realized I had to step it up a bit
cause I was running late
As I turned the corner and
shot up the final set of stairs
I saw an unfamiliar black face
standing like King Kong
at the top of the stairwell
with his eyes swinging
as wildly as both his arms
screaming
and hitting people
as they walked up those steps
I was about to turn around
When I realized
that I did not have enough time to go
around the second floor detour
without being late.. for class
again
I continued to march up those thirteen steps
I could see some students
begin to shift their whole bodies
slightly to the left
leading with the right shoulder
as if
to provide a target
for the attacker
to aim for besides their face
Other students decided
to take the hit
head on
directly in the middle of their chest,
their pummeled bodies flying
as if hit by the thick force
of water from a fire hydrant
I could hear him screaming
“they killed him,
you killed him,
they killed him! ”
As I took another
cautious step forward
I snuck a quick peek at his face,
I knew everyone in the school
and I confirmed to myself,
that he was not a student
but before my eyes left his face
I made a startling discovery
I saw a tear appear on his cheek
he was crying
he was crying
but kept punching
and swinging
not one of the students said anything
when they got hit,
they just released a “umph”
almost being careful
not to let out a sound
to warn other students
And the students held in
their tears too
clutched in between their
clenched prayer fists
hands into fingers
At this point
I realized
this person
who had terrorized our school
armed only with his lightning fast fists
was crying,
screaming
and hitting
the world around him
in a whirlwind of emotion
that was raining upon all the students
in that stairwell
and I was next up for the unending
onslaught of violence
and as he cocked his arm
for the more than one hundredth time
I wrestled the urge
to capture my balance
as soon as I could,
an angelic voice
from the other side of the stairwell
said…”hey man…
hey man…
that’s Oscar…
he’s cool
he’s ok’
and the man-child
quickly stepped aside
and let me pass
and as I headed down the hallway
with a sigh of relief draped across my face,
I realized it wasn’t that simple
And have wished every day since that I would have had the courage
to speak up for what dreams
Martin Luther King Jr. stood for
even if it meant
falling down
over my words
in that stairwell
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