the shirt reads across the front
american grown, with Dominican roots
the words are paired with an image
of a tree
that grows on american soil
american flag on top
dominican flag on bottom the roots exposed
to the sun light
no not the palms
or the mango trees of bani
of which she once knew well
what did it take
for us
to become american?
latin american, i should say
cus the distinction is of utmost importance
when people ask me “what” i am
i can point to the caribbean
i’ll say there, that little island
as the anglo looks on in fascination
oh i went to the dominican on vacation once
i’ve always noticed when THEY talk about their vacation it’s always “the dominican”
not dominican republic
not republica dominicana
the dominican
i try not to take it personal, i mean how could they know?
i don’t even know where i’m from that well myself
come onnnn, you know how it is in THE america, with their funny way of story telling
i guess it’s a good thing that i was raised here because now i can tell stories too
how can i tell you,
about this island that stands before you?
the one that’s american born with dominican roots?
how can i describe to you how the sky looked when i was born, how the stars aligned to draw a picture, of two kindred spirits dancing in unity
destined for an existence of double consciousness across waters
there’s a hurricane brewing inside of me
i was conceived at the place where the sand meets the water
i was created by a stroke of genius,
rooted firmly in the dirt of the caribbean
my breathing causes hurricanes
the kind you hear about on the news
the kind of the fourth category
destructive
the curvature of my spine
a singular palm tree that waves at the ocean
made resilient by the beating of a drum
i am named after the mountains,
the ones i always knew i could move
i used to live there once
very long ago
my indigenous traits can place me
on the map of the taínos
La Isabela knew me by name
a harmonious existence
once one with the landscape
an agreement to the soil
that was until 1494
my destiny become manifest
now all i’m left with is a name
Almonte
my skin and my blood wear the same colors
it remains the same shade of the line that was lost
i cut my palm to seek release
with this i begin to paint
two flags:
the first i take this hand
and drag it edge to edge
7 red lines, i mark my territory
1 more of me than the white
the other requires more precision
i need symmetry on each side
i mark my ancestry
on opposite sides of this flag
yet mirrored images of one another
the striped piece of fabric takes its home in my back pocket
it soaks through my clothes
staining my skin all over again
while the asymmetric flag flaps in the wind
spreading my existence over the planet
the same blood trickling
from my finger tips
the songs in my ears are ancient
i can’t place them in just one region
these feet of mine have traveled places
my eyes have never had the pleasure to grace
i am named but left untitled
an unmarked territory
i mark the intersection
passed by every single person involved in the slave trade
i’ve traded my sanity
in place of my identity
faced displacement before i ever touched the earth
i once had a claim on this world
the world was mine
i had enough
with what my soil had to offer me
i can’t remember but i feel it
for i have spent my life kneeling
searching for the pieces
searching for the reason
why i feel i don’t belong
i was once immovable
rooted, one with the planet
one too many hurricanes i’ve been removed
from the place i had claimed
so now i remain
in purgatory
i can not tell you what it means to be latin american
i can speak to you of what it means to be an object used to demonstrate displacement
i can speak to you of
severance
of disruption of the self
if you’re asking me what it’s like to be an anomaly that happens to live in america
i will tell you of apparitions
how in an uninterrupted existence
i would be able to tell you these stories in spanish
or maybe not at all
for in that case
i would not be a poet
i can tell you half stories
in half spanish
half english
if you’re asking me what it’s like to be me
i will speak
of being shattered
and then scattered
i am 3/5 of a human
only half of a soul
existing in a frenzy
constantly crashing into myself
i will speak
of being in pursuit of happiness
i will tell you what it’s like
to be sitting perfectly still
and have your insides running away from you
running
running
back home
i will tell you how
this life of halves
does not work for me
i will speak
of not knowing
i will speak of a history
that incites amnesia
in the western hemispheres of the world
i will speak
of being black
being indigenous
being woman
being alchemy
all at once
i am dominican
i am everything
i can not be put into a box.