Immigrant Sings the Blues

you assume

my American

life

did not include

food stamps

and rodents;

that I never

had an ER doctor

administer

charcoal

to get the extra

tablets out of

my blood stream.

you assume

my American

life

did not include

death,

debt,

and numerous cries

tossed to

deaf ears.

you believe

it’s better

to scrape

greenbacks

together

in the biting winter,

than to hustle

for reds and blues

in the midday sun.

you wonder

who comes back

to this small island

when they could be

lost

in big yankee space.

you don’t know

about my high school

history teacher   who

lectured on the ills

of Cuban communism,

preached justification

of the Grenadian invasion.

you don’t know

the compliments

I’ve received

from his colleague:

“Boy, you Africans

really know

your beads!”

did I tell you?

about my black American

friend

who related once to me

the makeup of a class

she was taking:

foreigners,

children of foreigners.

“I’m the only

normal one,”

she said.

“I don’t understand

the teacher.”

how many students

did not understand

my father

when he substituted?

how many pump

attendants

demanded he speak

English

when buying gas?

for how many positions

was he deemed

“overqualified”?

you assume

this American

life

is golden.

It’s actually

indigo.