A Stranger’s Visit to a New England Town Hall
(in memory of Mark Baumer)
Micro-aggressions are like bed bugs and lice; you’ll never find just one. The first time I heard the term. “micro-aggressions” was at an Ivy League university where a Latin@ student had been chastised by intonations of disgust: “Slow down, I don’t understand your English. You talk too fast.” Responses like that usually come from those who think too slowly or not at all. There is no “undoing” of gangrene. I am a double agent in the graveyards of bone and smallpox. My melanin levels disrupt expectations. My name. correctly pronounced incites. Treason. Affront. Act of a Hostility. Aggression. Chip on Shoulder. Micro? Never. Big.
Very Big. Macro. Must Delete.
Inner whispers tip toe across the room.
Elected faces contort in a shivering rage: Porto Rican Whore. Go Back Where You Came From. Bitch. You Passed. You Look Like Us.
You Are Not Us.
Droning self-importance hunches into microphones.
Imagined power assumes the position.
The naked emperor strikes a pose.
Yes, I can hear you.
You hate my gravy.
We are about to begin the meeting. I’m sorry. I have to ask you to leave.
Manners are everything. You are not sorry. We all know it.
You could have asked: Are you here for the meeting?
Word choices.
Panic Room door shuts itself out of embarrassment.
You might have escaped.
Too late.
We all knew.
Yes. I can see you.
Now.
Still.
Always. You are the broken record.
Your needle worn to the nub
Kills the music
I dance anyway, so you hate me.
I take my place
where I am not wanted.
My name is Magdalena.
Oh.
What?
Uh, oh, that’s such a beautiful name.
Can you say it again?
I can’t get it. Ma-duh-leen?
Where are you from?
Nice to meet you, Migdalia.
Do you have a nickname?
Oh, you’re Marga Gomez. I love your work.
I have a Porto Reekin’ friend named José;
you two will like each other.
I thought you were Jewish.
I thought your were Irish.
Are you here on a visa?
Your name is so exotic.
Are both your parents Puerto Rican?
You must come and speak to my class,
we’re studying Puerto Rican poets. Do you write?
I love Puerto Rican food, especially the yellow rice with the pigeon peas.
Your English is so good.
If you speak very slowly in Spanish I can understand.
Can I practice with you?
May I pick your brain? May I pick your brain? May I pick your brain?
Why would a Puerto Rican, be so interested in the Holocaust? Why do you care?
I love plantains.
Black beans in October celebrate Columbus Day. Black Beans Matter.
What’s a Taíno? Is it fried?
You might say that.
You ask my favored pronoun. Offer no water for my thirst.
The orchid of my mouth withers into silence.
Almost.
The sight of you keeps me from flatlining.
Over my dead body.
Over my dead body.
You who hate out of habit.
You win for a day.
A King with his coffer of words.
For sale and overpriced.
A blindly obedient Queen
brags of freedom.
Churns butter
that will never form.
Court with eyes
colorblind. Wish us away.
A melting pot bubbles.
Human flesh burns.
Obedience
not knowing for what.
Children give name
to lost humanity.
Three minutes exactly.
Next!
Exhausted.
Drained.
Sucked Dry.
Politeness causes cancer.
¡Puñeta, carajo! beats chemo.
Smiling migraines
healed by screams.
My broad culo gets looks.
Abuela’s ass, passed down.
Take it or leave it.
A path cuts itself
away from you.
Running.
Silenced. Then.
Loud. Louder.
Choose:
Squirm. Celebrate.
Doughy lumps on hard chairs dream of Emily Dickinson’s cookies.
Secrets.
Fear.
Egos suck out what remains of breathable air.
Lips twist. Eyes roll. Exaggerated sighs. Levees in a losing fight
to ancient, brutal storms.
We can still hear you.
Power bites into a sandwich. Tastes nothing.
Blames the sandwich.
Coffee slides down the broken throat
of double talk.
Oh,oh.
Down the wrong hole.
A quiet choking.
Dialogue punched in the face.
Brass knuckles covered in cotton candy.
Some throats tighten.
Others grow wings.
Truth flies freely beyond crazed nets.
A man with dead eyes wonders what I might be like in bed.
He’s never tasted mango.
The size of its seed causes terror.
The shape, confusion.
Sunfish nightmares of pussy metaphors.
Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.
Eyes look down.
Sphincters pinch daydreams hard. Choke them
before Langston comes back from the dead.
And he will.
America that has never been
will be again.
-Magdalena Gómez, February 2017
(in memory of Mark Baumer)
Micro-aggressions are like bed bugs and lice; you’ll never find just one. The first time I heard the term. “micro-aggressions” was at an Ivy League university where a Latin@ student had been chastised by intonations of disgust: “Slow down, I don’t understand your English. You talk too fast.” Responses like that usually come from those who think too slowly or not at all. There is no “undoing” of gangrene. I am a double agent in the graveyards of bone and smallpox. My melanin levels disrupt expectations. My name. correctly pronounced incites. Treason. Affront. Act of a Hostility. Aggression. Chip on Shoulder. Micro? Never. Big.
Very Big. Macro. Must Delete.
Inner whispers tip toe across the room.
Elected faces contort in a shivering rage: Porto Rican Whore. Go Back Where You Came From. Bitch. You Passed. You Look Like Us.
You Are Not Us.
Droning self-importance hunches into microphones.
Imagined power assumes the position.
The naked emperor strikes a pose.
Yes, I can hear you.
You hate my gravy.
We are about to begin the meeting. I’m sorry. I have to ask you to leave.
Manners are everything. You are not sorry. We all know it.
You could have asked: Are you here for the meeting?
Word choices.
Panic Room door shuts itself out of embarrassment.
You might have escaped.
Too late.
We all knew.
Yes. I can see you.
Now.
Still.
Always. You are the broken record.
Your needle worn to the nub
Kills the music
I dance anyway, so you hate me.
I take my place
where I am not wanted.
My name is Magdalena.
Oh.
What?
Uh, oh, that’s such a beautiful name.
Can you say it again?
I can’t get it. Ma-duh-leen?
Where are you from?
Nice to meet you, Migdalia.
Do you have a nickname?
Oh, you’re Marga Gomez. I love your work.
I have a Porto Reekin’ friend named José;
you two will like each other.
I thought you were Jewish.
I thought your were Irish.
Are you here on a visa?
Your name is so exotic.
Are both your parents Puerto Rican?
You must come and speak to my class,
we’re studying Puerto Rican poets. Do you write?
I love Puerto Rican food, especially the yellow rice with the pigeon peas.
Your English is so good.
If you speak very slowly in Spanish I can understand.
Can I practice with you?
May I pick your brain? May I pick your brain? May I pick your brain?
Why would a Puerto Rican, be so interested in the Holocaust? Why do you care?
I love plantains.
Black beans in October celebrate Columbus Day. Black Beans Matter.
What’s a Taíno? Is it fried?
You might say that.
You ask my favored pronoun. Offer no water for my thirst.
The orchid of my mouth withers into silence.
Almost.
The sight of you keeps me from flatlining.
Over my dead body.
Over my dead body.
You who hate out of habit.
You win for a day.
A King with his coffer of words.
For sale and overpriced.
A blindly obedient Queen
brags of freedom.
Churns butter
that will never form.
Court with eyes
colorblind. Wish us away.
A melting pot bubbles.
Human flesh burns.
Obedience
not knowing for what.
Children give name
to lost humanity.
Three minutes exactly.
Next!
Exhausted.
Drained.
Sucked Dry.
Politeness causes cancer.
¡Puñeta, carajo! beats chemo.
Smiling migraines
healed by screams.
My broad culo gets looks.
Abuela’s ass, passed down.
Take it or leave it.
A path cuts itself
away from you.
Running.
Silenced. Then.
Loud. Louder.
Choose:
Squirm. Celebrate.
Doughy lumps on hard chairs dream of Emily Dickinson’s cookies.
Secrets.
Fear.
Egos suck out what remains of breathable air.
Lips twist. Eyes roll. Exaggerated sighs. Levees in a losing fight
to ancient, brutal storms.
We can still hear you.
Power bites into a sandwich. Tastes nothing.
Blames the sandwich.
Coffee slides down the broken throat
of double talk.
Oh,oh.
Down the wrong hole.
A quiet choking.
Dialogue punched in the face.
Brass knuckles covered in cotton candy.
Some throats tighten.
Others grow wings.
Truth flies freely beyond crazed nets.
A man with dead eyes wonders what I might be like in bed.
He’s never tasted mango.
The size of its seed causes terror.
The shape, confusion.
Sunfish nightmares of pussy metaphors.
Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.
Eyes look down.
Sphincters pinch daydreams hard. Choke them
before Langston comes back from the dead.
And he will.
America that has never been
will be again.
-Magdalena Gómez, February 2017
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