A Naturalized Alien
I
Senhoras e senhores, ladies and gentlemen,
we’ll be landing shortly at Logan International
Airport, Boston. The TAP’s flight attendant announces.
From the air, the city looks like
a multi-colored light crystal ball.
At Customs an armed officer shouts:
US Citizens line one. Aliens, window number two.
On the streets, frigid air lashes the flesh,
cracking my tropical bone-marrow.
Large billboards, green signs, the infinite tunnel,
two-lane streets and wooden houses –
all alluring to a seventeen-year-old.
Welcome to America, someone says.
Jet-lagged and bewildered, I enter my
uncle’s house and sit back on a leather
sofa afraid to wake up from my own
version of Alice in Wonderland.
II
For years I’ve stood looking at the wall
in my study. Over the bookshelves stands
a framed white sealed document.
Sometimes I see through its sheen the black sands
of the islands interwoven with red and white,
and in the warmth of its blue foam, I float back and forth.
Sometimes I see in its writing the freedom
I strive to reach. My name resembles no
Founding fathers, nor does it bring out memories
for some to claim mea culpa.
In city halls, the courts, and the state houses
I am just a social security number, a picture ID.
At work, I’ve been a misspelled noun for decades.
When I complain I am told, be glad you have a
door sign.
In the employment office, the retirement board
I am a citizen, yet a person of another race and country.
III
In my neighborhood, the local malls and streets,
I am a series of adjectives: peculiar, eccentric, erratic,
an alienus, a foreigner.
Across the Atlantic, I am to some the expatriate,
To others, a victim of exile, the misfortunate.
Many times I let others think what they want.
I show plastic, dollar bills, even my blue passport,
and play the “Guess Who Am I ?” game.
IV
Sitting at my desk, the light burns the back
of my head. The monitor mirrors a cocoon,
my safe-conduct, my inexistence.
I'm neither noun nor adjective, yet I too,
Pledge allegiance to the Flag, symbol of
liberty and justice for all.
Outside the snow is falling and nothing
reminds me of the islands: homesickness
is a dormant feeling. In the background
Cesaria sings Petit pays, Je t’aime beaucoup.
How distant the rugged shores look from here.
I
Senhoras e senhores, ladies and gentlemen,
we’ll be landing shortly at Logan International
Airport, Boston. The TAP’s flight attendant announces.
From the air, the city looks like
a multi-colored light crystal ball.
At Customs an armed officer shouts:
US Citizens line one. Aliens, window number two.
On the streets, frigid air lashes the flesh,
cracking my tropical bone-marrow.
Large billboards, green signs, the infinite tunnel,
two-lane streets and wooden houses –
all alluring to a seventeen-year-old.
Welcome to America, someone says.
Jet-lagged and bewildered, I enter my
uncle’s house and sit back on a leather
sofa afraid to wake up from my own
version of Alice in Wonderland.
II
For years I’ve stood looking at the wall
in my study. Over the bookshelves stands
a framed white sealed document.
Sometimes I see through its sheen the black sands
of the islands interwoven with red and white,
and in the warmth of its blue foam, I float back and forth.
Sometimes I see in its writing the freedom
I strive to reach. My name resembles no
Founding fathers, nor does it bring out memories
for some to claim mea culpa.
In city halls, the courts, and the state houses
I am just a social security number, a picture ID.
At work, I’ve been a misspelled noun for decades.
When I complain I am told, be glad you have a
door sign.
In the employment office, the retirement board
I am a citizen, yet a person of another race and country.
III
In my neighborhood, the local malls and streets,
I am a series of adjectives: peculiar, eccentric, erratic,
an alienus, a foreigner.
Across the Atlantic, I am to some the expatriate,
To others, a victim of exile, the misfortunate.
Many times I let others think what they want.
I show plastic, dollar bills, even my blue passport,
and play the “Guess Who Am I ?” game.
IV
Sitting at my desk, the light burns the back
of my head. The monitor mirrors a cocoon,
my safe-conduct, my inexistence.
I'm neither noun nor adjective, yet I too,
Pledge allegiance to the Flag, symbol of
liberty and justice for all.
Outside the snow is falling and nothing
reminds me of the islands: homesickness
is a dormant feeling. In the background
Cesaria sings Petit pays, Je t’aime beaucoup.
How distant the rugged shores look from here.