"What Race are You?"

The conquerors
came to my mother’s door,
kicked it in
and invited us
to accept Jesus
at the tip
of a sword.

What could she do?
They were on a quest,
a holy mission
guided by The Great Commission
and imperialist avarice.

Subjugate,
rinse,
and repeat.

With each new soul,
each hungry, crying mouth,
with every generation,
the original sin
was watered down,
until eventually
there were enough
mestizos
that they qualified
for their own
ethnic checkbox,
their own profile-able
category.

Fast forward
centuries and continents
later…
what is your race?

Father was
a Spanish rapist
a Christian murderer.

Mother was
a humble Indio,
a surviving stoic.

I am not half-White.
I am not half-Indigenous.

I am mixed
and troubled
by my father’s cruelty,
humbled
by my mother’s strength.

My blood is
impure,
and so is
my race.

Hands Digging Into This Earth

Cool Saturday mornings
in spring
I weed the planter
in blissful silence.

It’s simple,
tactile.

I break the
cold hard ground
and sift the dirt
through my fingers
plucking the weeds
as though they were
errant gray hairs.

The same ground
worked and farmed by
my Mexican ancestors
and the Mestizos before them
and the Indios before them
and the Aztecs…

I am connected
to that eternal continuum
of hands digging
into this Earth.

It is almost
a mindless activity,
peaceful,
this private haven
that I own

and I smile
at my self-deception
and audacity:

to think
I own this land
that was here
long before
all my ancestors

and will outlast us all.

My name’s just
on the deed

for now.

Orale, Ese (Pronounced Oh-Rah-Lay Es-Say)

"Orale,

I've been waiting
for you, ese.

Where've you been?

Yeah, I know,
you're alive and kicking,
and no one wants
to come down
to the cemetery
on their day off.

I've been watching you,
from here,
and you're still
kind of a boring
guy, pocho.
Jes' kiddin', ese.

I get it.
I'd trade with you
if I could.

Why you keep
looking at your watch?

Yeah, I know
you got kids waiting
for their Chick-Fil-A
but first,

I dunno,

just think of me
sometime,
you know?

You don't have to put up
a whole ofrenda 
or anything,

but when you hear
Trio Los Panchos,
or when you get that
warm, full feeling
after you eat menudo,

think of me,
en Espanol, tambien.

Ok, that's all,
thanks, senor. 

Adios, ese."

The Long, Brown Line

The line at the AM/PM
was long
and short
and dark brown.

These day laborers
who manicure the lawns
of the wealthy

and add the aftermarket
water fountains
to the McMansions

were stocking up
for the day:
coffee,
chewing tobacco,
and 2 for 1 hot dogs
overstuffed with
free condiments.

I look like I could be
related to them
through some long brown line
of ancestry.

They would
probably speak respectfully
to my mom,
probably work hard all day in the sun and
probably are here
illegally.

I stood at
at the end of the line
with another kind of brown.

He reminded me of
my dad:
He looked like
he was first-generation
Mexican-American,
who grew up
aspiring to assimilate..

He looked like
he earned the American Dream
owned his own home
sent his kids through college,
and even voted Republican.

I don’t know
what he assumed about me,
in my suit and tie
on my way to
my white collar job
in academia.

Perhaps he thought
he’d found a kindred spirit.

Referring to that line of
brown distant relatives ahead,
he turned to me
and in tones
mocking and conspiratorial
said

“Boy, Immigration would have
a field day here, huh?”

At that point
he stopped reminding me
of my dad.

I gave him
the cold, indifferent stare
I reserve for racists
and the otherwise
aggressively
ignorant

and channeled my father:
and I replied,
“No se.”

Incomplete America

“They're bringing crime. 
They're rapists. 
And some, I assume, are good people.”
- Donald T(he )Rump on Mexico

Make America Great Again?

Nothing screams
Clueless White Male Privilege
than pining for
“The Good Ol’ Days.”

Anything
pre-1965,
pre-Civil Rights Acts
pre-Voting Rights Act,
is an
Incomplete America.

I piss on your nostalgia.

I shit on your romanticized
Hollywood fantasies
of a sanitized,
White Protestant
America,
where everyone
had their place,
and they knew it
and they kept there
and they were happy.

Their mythology comforts
for there is
no conflict,
no desperate, hungry pleas
to distract
The Exceptional, Chosen Americans
from their enviable dreams.

I’m an American
and my country
needs me,
and the rest of us
who have been left out
on the sidelines,
in the boiling kitchens,
under punishing sunlight
in the fields,
wiping the asses
of the royal offspring
of the rich and pampered,

to register
and vote,
vote,
vote.

Don’t let them
“Make America Great Again”
because we know
where that led us.

Vote and
“Make America Complete, At Last.”

Moskowitz voting in California Primary, June 2016

[For Poets United suffrage prompt.]

Brown Privilege

I can arrange
to be around people
of my own race
most of the time,
whether I
want it or not.

I can avoid spending time
with people whom I was trained
to mistrust,
mostly because
I’m unwelcome there.

I can go shopping alone
most of the time
at la carniceria,
la panaderia,
or any of the price-point,
mini-mall variety stores
pretty well assured
I won’t be followed
or harassed.

I can turn on the tv
or read the front page
of the newspaper,
and see people
of my race widely represented,
mostly in stories about
illegal immigration,
narco-trafficking,
and quinceaneras .

I can be pretty sure
of having my voice heard
in a group where
I am the only member
of my race,
as long as I am
amusing and
non-threatening.

I can do well
in a challenging situation
without being called
a credit to my race,
although I have been called
“one of the good ones.”

I can worry about racism
perpetrated against
white people
without being seen
as self-interested or
self-seeking.

I can take a job
that I am overqualified for
with an affirmative action
employer without
my co-workers suspecting
I got the job
because of my race.

I can be late to a meeting
of MECHA
or La Raza
without my lateness
reflecting on my race.

I will feel
welcomed and “normal”
in the usual walks of public life,
institutional and social,
provided I know my place
and stay there.

The Kissing Contest

The theme of
her 8th grade
boy-girl birthday party
was “Tonight’s the Night”
by Rod Stewart.

Barely teenage couples
slow-danced and
laughed in the
nervous darkness.

Then came the
hotly anticipated,
much whispered about
“who could kiss
the longest?” contest,
a gauntlet
presumably intended
to discern some kind of
bravado and boldness
for its participants.

Despite my overweight
bookworm status,
I knew I could win this,
and I was matched up with
Debbie,
the only other Mexican invited.

The timer started
and the competing couples
all lunged in:

the others catcalled, hooted,
vicariously enjoying the
implied bravery
of this all,
but,
it was just an act,
there was no passion –
just lip-to-lip suction.

Like most guys,
I learned how to
disassociate my feelings
from my body
in kindergarten,
when boys are taught
to ignore their boundaries
of privacy
and learn to urinate
standing next to
some random 5 year old
in an accompanying stall.

Compared to that,
kissing a girl
was a piece of cake,
a party game
to be won,
and we did,

and I still have
the prize:
a 45 single
of Peter Frampton’s
“Do You Feel
Like We Do?”

Weenie-Reeto!

Growing up
my mom used to 
cook leftovers and 
roll them into 
warm flour tortillas
to make burritos
out of anything
and everything.

It didn't have to be 
refried beans or rice,
it could be scrambled eggs
and bacon 
or chili colorado.

She wasn't prejudiced,
food was food.

So, here's my contribution
to the canon of Mexican cuisine:

take one 
all-American hot dog
(the higher the fat content,
the more American)
and microwave it 
for 30 seconds
on a paper towel,

and while that's cooking,
heat over an open flame
one authentic
made-with-lard 
flour tortilla,
and allow it to burn
just a little bit 
like Grandma Trini used to,
and then say 
“the burned part 
is good for you,”

next, unwrap a slice
of American cheese 
and place it 
on the tortilla,
top with the hot dog 
and zap it another 
30 seconds,

then squirt it with
a line of ketchup
(or catsup),

 and roll it up
(don’t forget 
to tuck the bottom in, 
a rookie mistake)

and presto,
you have a weenie-reeto!

The perfect 
all-American snack 
for hungry 
culturally-assimilated 
Mexicans
everywhere!

Es delicioso!

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com where my poetry vatos rock it weakly, but not weekly!  Orale, vamanos!]

Off-White

In pictures with Browns
I look White,
and in pictures of Whites
I look Brown.

Torn between two cultures
feeling like un tonto.

I grew up watching
the Brady Bunch
but listening
to Cheech and Chong.

When I caught a cold
I learned that chicken soup
is ok,
but menudo with
freshly ground oregano
worked better for me,

and a tricked out
Chevy lowrider
beat an SUV
hands down for me.

Pride in my heritage
didn’t start
with achievements or icons,
it started
when I was
no longer embarrassed
that I wasn’t
something else.

Not quite White
Not quite Brown:

Proudly, defiantly

Off-White.

Return to Sender (For Brian Miller)

The blonde cheerleader
tracked me down,
a schlumpy, Mexican freshman,
to retrieve
the carnation and note
intended for
her boyfriend, the quarterback,
who just happened
to share my name.

With eyes averted,
I handed her
the torn-open envelope
which contained
her delicate cursive:

“I want to suck
your big brown machine.”

Welcome to high school.

[Written for #MeetingTheBar at dversepoets.com - it's Brian's birthday, so write him a present!]

Mexicality FAQ

I am an American
of Mexican descent.

My family didn’t come
to this country,
this country came to us;
we were your hosts.

“No, actually,
the Native Americans
were here first.”

Well, we were
the product of
Spanish conquistadores
conquistadoring
the indigenous peoples.

“So, you’re actually European?”

Ask President Obama
since he’s half White,
which parent he claims?

“But you don’t look
Mexican.”

Thanks,
is that supposed to be
a compliment?

“Great, you can be
our translator!”

No, I only know about
50 words of Spanish,
and while that may qualify
you as being bilingual,
it brands me as
pathetic traitor to my culture
by Mexicans
from Mexico.

“So, were your parents
born here?”

Where, planet Earth?
Yes, specifically
in California and Colorado.

“So, do you celebrate
Cinco de Mayo?”

No, because I’m not
Mexican,
see first question.

“I admire Mexican culture
because they are
so family-oriented.”

Yes, we all come
from families,
and many of us practice
responsible birth control,
and haven’t brought
any children
into this world,
like myself and my brothers
Danny and Paul,
all three of us
college-educated
by the way.

“So you’re probably
for illegal immigration,
or some kind of amnesty.”

Sure,
but to be fair,
make it
retroactive to 1492.

“Why are you
so angry
about your Mexicality?”

I’m sorry,
I’m just tired.

Time for me to curl up
against a lone smooth cactus,
pull the brim of my sombrero
down over my eyes,
and take my siesta.

[This poem was inspired by the Cinco de Mayo display for Corona beer found in my local Southern California grocery story-pictured above.  If you weren't lucky enough to be born Mexican, here's your chance!  Posted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com - my favorite site for poets!]