Untitled
Anthony Garcia
Here, on the intersection of Whittier Boulevard and Maple Avenue
From the hightop converses posted on telewire
The ones tied together with colored laces
To that little sidewalk behind the corner store alley
Cracked, tagged, and in need of repair,
Behind the security bars of my window,
A home inside a prison
Even up above where the ghetto bird roams
Preying on melanated souls
It clearly doesn’t require half a million dollars for a sociology degree
To recognize that the world is off balance
The academy brags of its commitment to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion
A desire to solve the world’s most pressing issues
What a paradox then,
That the problem seeks to be the solution
Structures of power created in such a way
That these same people we study in Sociology
The working class, the immigrants, the unhoused, and other displaced peoples
Only exist in the abstract; in textbooks, lectures, and imagination
But not tangibly, not breathing here within these same four walls
Am I a ghost?
Have I not been breathing here within this institution?
Have I not been raising my hand for an eternity?
Pleading for the chance to speak
To share a truth that risks my livelihood as much as it does yours
It’s almost as if my taking up of space
Taking up that little chair with that built in desk
One less seat for the elite
As if someone mistook a pinto bean for a grain of white rice
Is a glitch in the system
“No pertenezco”; I don’t belong here
My people aren’t worthy of a space here
Yet somehow, narratives of us are formed here
Often told inaccurately
Of how we are low-class
Of a people that threaten modernity and development
Of a people that simply don’t wish to better themselves
Social deviants are what they call us
Sick people in need of a cure
I’m sorry ama,
All those times
Never forgetting those goodnight kisses
Those little potions, the remedios you would craft
The tubs of vaporrub, pots of lemon tea
Chili cheese fries and Fanta Strawberry at Arrys
Carrying me tight across your arms
Running to drop me off with Mrs. Gonzalez
The melodies your heart sang
When I’d rest against your chest
The constant reminders “que si se puede”
I could be a doctor, a firefighter, perhaps an artist
All those dreams we crafted together
All of that
Somehow not enough to save me from this disease
Apparently, I didn’t cite enough readings
Enough research findings
Enough quotes from the 1800s
To understand my lived experiences
The many “mijo hechale ganas”
“EBT or WIC?”
“I’ll bring the bus fare next time”
To realize that lived, legacies of resilience to cycles of oppression
To relate a type of knowledge gained
Gained far removed from literary text
Or from the tongue of a PhD graduate
To recognize that layer of perspective
Silenced by the dominant powers that be
Are linked to histories of who belongs and who doesn’t
Is quite a dangerous thing
What am I to do now?
There is no turning back
No second chances
No undoing
Of the mountains crossed
Oceans swam
Families lost
For a dream which I’ll never get the sleep for
The unspoken “do’s and dont’s” to the formal education setting
Among others,
Do listen to the professor
Do raise your hand before speaking
Do submit your work before 11:59 PM
But,
Please don’t challenge this “education” you are receiving
Don’t question why we experience space and place differently
And for POC, just don’t be
Quite frankly, our livelihoods are being erased
Who knew these fine lines of black ink
sprawled across this 8.5 by 11 in page
could open up another dimension
A portal into a safe haven
Where what I know to be true,
That inner voice and memory
Is not silenced by the pressures to present knowledge a certain way
Is not lost to the convenience of accepting inequality as natural
Is not bound by rubrics and grading scales
And instead,
Opens up a place where our dreams could be made possible
Where all those structures that lead to isms and phobias cease to exist
This is what writing for liberation looks like.
Can you hear us now?
