This is meant to be performed as a spoken word piece. It’s based on true conversations with my dad’s mother, known as Mamus in our family.
***
My grandmother thinks I hate America.
She cried at the dinner table last Thanksgiving because
I believe in a woman’s right to choose,
and because I chose to eat tofu
instead of turkey. Mamus doesn’t really “get” me:
she was a stay-at-home doctor’s wife
and has lived all her life
in a red state
so now I get the blues worrying
about what I’m going to say
the next time I see her, whether
I will confront the tears in those eyes
that are as blue as mine, or whether
I will just decide to hide.
“No, Mamus, I’m not dating any guys”
(And it’s true, but what would she say or do
if she knew I was seeing a girl instead?) The same red
made-in-America blood flows in our veins,
we share bad backs and last names,
yet this is how we communicate
these days: I try not to tell my grandmother
what she doesn’t want to hear, and she still sends me
a card on my birthday
even though she thinks I hate this country.
But my grandmother, she is America
in all its star-striped sins and glory,
she is part of this fucked-up national family story and
I want to say to her, how could I hate
you, Mamus? How could I face you
in anger when we share so much more than DNA?
Cause yeah, I get the blues
in November just like you do, and we both like the taste
of Grey Goose
more than we ought to sometimes.
It would be simpler if I could grab onto hate, take the easy way
and just dismiss your views, and your irrevocably red state
but you, you gave me a father and a nickname, you’ve given me
stories, Christmas cookies, and a legacy
I can’t escape. See way back in
your-my-our bloodline, there’s a slave
who shared a Confederate army tent with your great/not-so-great
grandfather; I don’t even know the name
of the man our ancestor owned, but I know they never gave
him a rifle to hold. And though I am
tired of watching this shadow-puppet history replay
in shades of black and white, red, blue and gray,
I am not ashamed
of you or my bloody heritage.
I can’t hate America, because like it or not
this is the story that bore me
kicking and screaming
my face blue into the horror, and you were there
to welcome me into that first morning.
And I would rather bite my tongue down to blood than bring
tears to cloud your blue eyes and drown your voice, Mamus,
because it is my choice, Mamus
to accept this country’s red-stained history as my own
and try to transform it anyway.
I want to help create a nation where
you won’t worry about who I love–black, white, female, red or blue–
and where I won’t have to choose between
making a new America, and loving you.
September 21, 2008 at 5:01 am
hey!
I love this.
We are so divided and at the same time, the ties run real deep.
would love to hear it performed 🙂
September 25, 2008 at 1:09 am
When you’re (both) ready, this could help to stitch the wounds together. You know her better than I, but grand/parents are usually touched more deeply by their children’s talent than their disappointment. Also, it’s easier to be honest and uninterrupted in poetry.
November 1, 2008 at 8:22 am
I can relate to this piece, particularly the references to the Confederecy and a conservative grandmother in a red state. It’s a tough subject with which to grapple, and you present it very well. I love the interjected comedic references to the Goose.