Ingrid M. Calderón-Collins
from ANC061: Let the Buzzards Eat Me Whole
English proved to be comical at best.
I was in 3rd grade when I was finally fluent.
But I’m jumping ahead of myself.
Before then, I had learned a few words by listening to American music back in El Salvador, from artists like Madonna, WHAM, Tears for Fears.
Music always seemed to make its way into the most impoverished countries.
It was a balm.
I listened to all the Americans talking American slang,
as I floated from grade to grade.
I was in 3rd grade when I was finally fluent.
But I’m jumping ahead of myself.
Before then, I had learned a few words by listening to American music back in El Salvador, from artists like Madonna, WHAM, Tears for Fears.
Music always seemed to make its way into the most impoverished countries.
It was a balm.
I listened to all the Americans talking American slang,
as I floated from grade to grade.
•
There’s this feeling I get,
that I compare to the first day
of kindergarten--
of kindergarten--
I carried ravens on my head,
the schoolyard
filled with goldfinches.
filled with goldfinches.
I watched trees be free
in the breeze,
in the breeze,
swings anticipating
the feeling of gravity,
the feeling of gravity,
mind like a Ferris wheel.
In the corner,
a plugged incubator
showed life,
was a warm
lavish classroom
was a warm
lavish classroom
burning
of glue and glitter.
of glue and glitter.
I plunged my fist wrist-deep
inside the paste,
left it
there,
there,
enjoying its thickness
between my fingers,
the lapis sky
whizzing
beneath my
feet,
feet,
the core inside the sun,
a feeling of heat,
a neatly tucked passion,
on my crown.
on my crown.
Tied love notes on balloons,
set them off
into the smog,
into the smog,
hoping someone would respond,
with the same feeling I get,
with the same feeling I get,
that I compare to the first day
of kindergarten.
of kindergarten.
•
But even now, after three decades of constant exposure to the language and some formal education, I still fuck up.
I still get shit wrong.
I use my hands a lot.
Speak with purpose.
Use my whole body.
Make a dance of it.
I still get shit wrong.
I use my hands a lot.
Speak with purpose.
Use my whole body.
Make a dance of it.
•
In 1986, El Monte, CA,
I lived next door to my first American friend, Kristy Marie Cooper.
She was Mormon.
I was Mormon.
She wanted brown skin.
I wanted white skin.
She watched me through thicket, and I watched back.
She giggled and twirled her limbs like putty.
Ran her hands through my thick black hair as I stared at her big green eyes.
It was love.
I lived next door to my first American friend, Kristy Marie Cooper.
She was Mormon.
I was Mormon.
She wanted brown skin.
I wanted white skin.
She watched me through thicket, and I watched back.
She giggled and twirled her limbs like putty.
Ran her hands through my thick black hair as I stared at her big green eyes.
It was love.
•
Midnight swingset, park mischief,
woken up in half-eyed laughter,
lids intact to the sapphire sky,
feline sister
indulged in her strange attraction to
my hurt,
a vast black mass of what in daytime was lush and green.
A black mass and I floated
on midnight swingset,
laughter curtailed in the dark.
Are those shadows of trees?
Of men?
Of sister and her own pain?
I recognized the evil,
I recognized that gravity is where I’m pulled and
I wanted someone to push me off into indifference.
woken up in half-eyed laughter,
lids intact to the sapphire sky,
feline sister
indulged in her strange attraction to
my hurt,
a vast black mass of what in daytime was lush and green.
A black mass and I floated
on midnight swingset,
laughter curtailed in the dark.
Are those shadows of trees?
Of men?
Of sister and her own pain?
I recognized the evil,
I recognized that gravity is where I’m pulled and
I wanted someone to push me off into indifference.
•
Mormonism was a statuesque presence in my life.
It saved my father from alcoholism.
Small town superstition helped this.
Invade impoverished peoples and watch them flock to your promise of salvation.
I was born into it, so it was all I knew.
My first love was a Mormon missionary named Tony, when I was four.
He was a love song when I needed intimacy, an Angel that rubbed oil on my temples to cure my migraines.
The migraines that always plagued me, the migraines that made me scream like a child demon, the migraines that were only cured by these beautiful, virginal Angel hands, which I’m sure touched himself often.
I’d often fake migraines to feel Tony’s fingers on my skin.
He’d close his eyes to pray over me, summoning this pain to leave, to return from where it came.
I watched him through sinful slits, watched his mouth shape prayers which felt like witchery.
I only ever felt his presence and that was enough to make a believer out of me.
It saved my father from alcoholism.
Small town superstition helped this.
Invade impoverished peoples and watch them flock to your promise of salvation.
I was born into it, so it was all I knew.
My first love was a Mormon missionary named Tony, when I was four.
He was a love song when I needed intimacy, an Angel that rubbed oil on my temples to cure my migraines.
The migraines that always plagued me, the migraines that made me scream like a child demon, the migraines that were only cured by these beautiful, virginal Angel hands, which I’m sure touched himself often.
I’d often fake migraines to feel Tony’s fingers on my skin.
He’d close his eyes to pray over me, summoning this pain to leave, to return from where it came.
I watched him through sinful slits, watched his mouth shape prayers which felt like witchery.
I only ever felt his presence and that was enough to make a believer out of me.
|
|
