183. Mother Country (Richard Blanco)
Visado
He tenido la cita del visado. Ya me había topado con tanta incompetencia, que iba lista para enfrentarme con La Máquina. Dentro de todo, no estuvo tan mal como me lo esperaba. Antes de salir busqué las reseñas de Google y leí que no aceptaban tarjeta —khé— así que tuve que ir más pronto a sacar dinero. Luego la gente que también estaba en la fila suspiraba con frustración cuando se enteraban de este detalle. Ya había leído que no dejaban entrar bolsos, pero lo hacían cumplir a rajatabla. Una chica, casi llorando, dijo que nada, que ya dejaría su bolso ahí fuera. Como yo estaba saliendo, le dije que me lo llevaba yo y se lo guardaba en el café de enfrente. Allí me encontré con otra chica que había entrado conmigo y comentamos lo poco profesional que había sido todo. Es tan cutre que allí nos dimos cuenta de que cobraban por servicios extras que no habíamos pedido (“envío de mensaje de texto cuando el pasaporte esté listo” o “recogida del pasaporte en horario flexible”). La chica del bolso —jovencísima— volvió llorando porque le faltaban un montón de papeles y tenía que volver. Intentamos animarla un poco. No sé si lo logramos, pero lo agradeció.
MOTHER COUNTRY
Richard Blanco
To love a country as if you’ve lost one: 1968,
my mother leaves Cuba for America, a scene
I imagine as if standing in her place—one foot
inside a plane destined for a country she knew
only as a name, a color on a map, or glossy photos
from drugstore magazines, her other foot anchored
to the platform of her patria, her hand clutched
around one suitcase, taking only what she needs
most: hand-colored photographs of her family,
her wedding veil, the doorknob of her house,
a jar of dirt from her backyard, goodbye letters
she won’t open for years. The sorrowful drone
of engines, one last, deep breath of familiar air
she’ll take with her, one last glimpse at all
she’d ever known: the palm trees wave goodbye
as she steps onto the plane, the mountains shrink
from her eyes as she lifts off into another life.
To love a country as if you’ve lost one: I hear her
—once upon a time—reading picture books
over my shoulder at bedtime, both of us learning
English, sounding out words as strange as the talking
animals and fair-haired princesses in their pages.
I taste her first attempts at macaroni-n-cheese
(but with chorizo and peppers), and her shame
over Thanksgiving turkeys always dry, but countered
by her perfect pork pernil and garlic yuca. I smell
the rain of those mornings huddled as one under
one umbrella waiting for the bus to her ten-hour days
at the cash register. At night, the zzz-zzz of her sewing
her own blouses, quinceañera dresses for her nieces
still in Cuba, guessing at their sizes, and the gowns
she’d sell to neighbors to save for a rusty white sedan—
no hubcaps, no air-conditioning, sweating all the way
through our first vacation to Florida theme parks.
To love a country as if you’ve lost one: as if
it were you on a plane departing from America
forever, clouds closing like curtains on your country,
the last scene in which you’re a madman scribbling
the names of your favorite flowers, trees, and birds
you’d never see again, your address and phone number
you’d never use again, the color of your father’s eyes,
your mother’s hair, terrified you could forget these.
To love a country as if I was my mother last spring
hobbling, insisting I help her climb all the way up
to the U.S. Capitol, as if she were here before you today
instead of me, explaining her tears, cheeks pink
as the cherry blossoms coloring the air that day when
she stopped, turned to me, and said: You know, mijo,
it isn’t where you’re born that matters, it’s where
you choose to die—that’s your country.
Bien hecho todo.