Isaac Morales

“This land is my land,

This land is your land,

From California, to the New York Islands

From the redwood forests, to the gulfstream waters,

This land was made for you and me”

This land was made for you and me.

This land…was made…for you… and me?

I’m walking here, wondering, pondering,

what do you mean for you AND me?

This street that I walk on, on this Sunday afternoon,

This street that my barefeet have touched,

Judged by you thinking of me as an other.

Where do you get that idea of you and me?

A land of what and who, a land that is where,

A land of possibility and expansive freedom.

Possibility for whom, freedom from what?

This land was made for you and me.

before your capitalist and nationalist

calls for patriotism in your nation, and the creation

and manifestation of destiny

came and took from me the land that is mine.

You took it, but esta tierra, esta tierra es mi tierra

Dont you ever forget that. Y siempre la sera.

Song: (To the tune of This Land is Your Land)

Esta’s mi tierra

It’s not just your land.

Desde Califas, hasta los Nuyores

From the grape farms, to Latin Hollywood.

This land was built by me not you.

Esta’s mi tierra

It’s not just your land.

Desde Aztlán, hasta Quisqueya

From Tenochtitlan to Machu Picchu

This Land was built for me not you

This land was made of my ancestry

See California is mine, the New York Islands are ours.

America is more mine than it will ever be yours

America is me, is my primos, my papi, mami.

America is my compadres and comadres.

America is my root. How can you call it

the Latin American diaspora when we are simply

moving about in the same ways that we used to

flowing with the rivers, building in our valleys,

soaring through the wind, running through the hills of opportunity.

We are as old and as permanent as the redwood forests,

as powerful and brilliant as the gulfstream waters.

Song: (To the tune of America the Beautiful)

O horrible, for all your lies

For centuries of pain,

For unwarranted atrocities,

Above all of our graves,

America! America! Nunca te conoci!

You killed my hood, misunderstood

my pleas for parity.

Y cuando mi primo vino,

he thought he’d have oportunidad

He thought he’d have it all.

A mi que me vale that you come here with your banjo

and your promise of one day making it.

A mi que mi importa, que puedes cantar tus llantos

of progress and hope.

Crossing the oceans, the gulfs, the deserts

Crossing cultures and nations,

people and places,

you can see it on their tired faces

But your fear erases, debases, encases,

the struggle, the history, the value, of my people.

Ayyy que dolor. Ayyy, ayayayyy,

Song: (To the tune of Oh! Susana)

Ay Susana!

I come from far away

With my pride and my canteen

Estoy en camino a America

Where I’ll find my liberty

Ayyy Susana!

No llores por mi

I come from far away

With my pride and my canteen

But what am I?

Am I the land, am I the people,

am I everything you hated?

I can’t be..

Sure I can

Como que no puedo serlo

Yeah, but maybe..

No.

How can I say I came from my parent’s place of birth,

if I came from here.

But what is here?

Because here, is not there.

But there, is who I am

to you and who I’ve become to me.

And who are you?

This other person that came in

That walked all over me

that set up borders and regimes,

set up murder schemes,

set up order to disguise your anarchy.

You horrid evil sucio Yanqui

Hmmph

Song: (To the tune of (Yankee Doodle Dandy)

Yanqui sucio came to town

Spreading liberty

Stuck a flag on the ground

And called it destiny

Yanqui sucio please get off,

Yanqui sucio please just stop

Mind the land that you’ve robbed

And with your arms have mercy

But you know, maybe I’ll just wait it out.

Porque in 30 years, you’ll know what I mean.

You can fear it, succumb to your threat narratives,

an imperative superlative that guises you as the native.

But you know, that is not you.

And we know you know that we know.

There’s no need for me to rise, porque nunca me cai.

There’s no need for you to fall, porque asi no creci.

Sigo caminando, pensando, frustrado.

Pero no me voy. I’m here to stay.

Unlearning is difficult, entendiendo is easy.

Camina with me.

Closing song: (Tulipa Ruiz, Efémeral).

Vou ficar mais um pouquinho,

Para ver se acontece alguma coisa

Nessa tarde de domingo.

#PatrioticBallads #ChicanoRevolution

Adventures line this shelf as empty bottles straddle nearby.

I open each book to find a new smile; an old memory.

I see in those pages a reflection of myself against the skyline.

I understand then why I finally felt free.

Neon lights blurred against the rain-soaked pavement,

while the humid air pranced around my lungs.

Summer nights, mesh shirts our ailment,

Fleeting love, like gum passed between our tongues.

Life in the city

pushed us,

shoved us,

bore us witnesses to life in protest.

Normalcy was never a state to achieve,

But a mindset meant to be shattered.

Honing us in, we came to believe,

We weren’t just alive, we were shining.

A memory wiped by a lightning blue flash,

Sending the city into complete darkness.

And yet, dreams lit our paths,

So we stood up, walked out, fearless.

Kids running to the classroom without efforts to contain their adrenaline,

Proving they were stronger than any other children I knew.

Spending holidays with individuals living off the trash bins,

Who did not experience the privilege the city offered me,

Handing them plates, singing with them, laughing in unison.

Warmth emanating fiercely through the stormiest nights,

As radiant love melted away the ice caps around our chests;

Air rushing passed our drunken faces on the swings,

Soaring,

Knowing:

The moon our savior,

The sun wouldn’t burn our wings.

And we were free.

And we were loved.

And we were safe in a dream-consuming jungle,

Regurgitating them as memories forlorn and foretold.

And we were victorious.

Confetti blowing in the air, steam churning from the underground liberated above,

Racing back home to make it on time to let loose, one last cheer, hands held high.

The glistening city lights imitated by the snow-covered hills in a drunken slur,

Marking time passed not by the clock, but our will to shine brighter.

Even as waterfalls streamed down humid cheeks underground,

And knees scraped by crumpled pavements obscuring the road ahead,

And feet ached because the journey never came to a close,

Alone never felt lonely.

And in the lung-pinching humid atmosphere, our fists in protest,

Voices screaming for the justice we were denied,

Demanding our place in the world be recognized,

Hips swinging, hands clapping, tongues twirling, love shining,

simmering,

seducing,

surviving.

The buildings may have lit the sky,

but the moonlight emitted by our skin

meant we were the beacons of light that made these streets homes.

And we were seen.

Among the towering concrete structures,

Because of our love.

And we were heard.

In the noisy bustling streets,

Within our hearts.

And we were us.

In glitter and drag,

Fully.

And you became home.

Here.

A memory to be closed and reopened.

Books to be held upright,

bookends at the helm,

containing the galaxy you created,

for me.

#Closure #Beginnings #NYC #Queerness #Perseverance. 

Author’s Note: Seven and a half years ago, I had arrived fresh faced to the concrete jungle; dreams in hand, heart at the helm. I knew then what I know now: I saw my reflection in the skyline, felt my soul in the wind tunnels on Broadway and Astor Place. The city that welcomed me then was much younger than the one whom I left then again, and will be different than the one I hope to one day be back in. But for now, what beauty it’s been to be seen, to be heard, to be me, to be home as I made it be. To see the grittiest portions of the city, the best it has to offer for truth. To live outside the bubble half this country believes they themselves don’t live in. To fight for a safe space, not where we heard what we wanted to hear, but a safe space where difficult dialogue took place without ramifications.

Dark screen. “Anchor Baby” Flashes Three Times.

They called me anchor baby. They call me alien to a land bled on by my ancestors before theirs ever set the course to ruin it.

Images begin to appear, fading in and out. The story of immigrants is shown, birthing a nation (even if violent). Images are of different migrant groups, stemming to the first people who crossed the Bering strait.

They called me anchor baby. They misunderstand that my parents were not planting an anchor to claim their right to a dream that was already gone.

They called me anchor baby. They believe we are infiltrators, multipliers, savages, seeking to ravage a land we only till.

They called me anchor baby. They believe I was born to divide a nation already falling in on itself.

They called me anchor baby. They misunderstand the meaning and the purpose of their anchor.

I serve to guide our sinking ship, anchor it to the ground in rocky shores.

I will plunge into the depths of unknown and dark oceans, to keep her afloat.

In the midst of rocky shores, unstable tides, and despairing odds, I give my body to guide the People when its dreams have turned to nightmares.

I will dig through the toughest rocks, unsettle the foundation, to root a new beginning.

They called me anchor baby, forgetting that I was the only tool they had to save them from themselves.

Cut to black.

Fading in to picture, from the front, a mother dressed in American rags is seen sitting on a rocking chair, swaying back and forth, with a baby in its hands. A white backdrop and wooden floor. She begins humming the beginning to “Angel Baby” by Rosie & the Originals.

She sings.

It’s just like heaven being here with you

You’re like an anchor, too good to be true

But after all, I love you, I do

She rises from her chair, walks forward and the camera pans outward to the left, showing her walking towards right of frame and an ocean appears. She is on a boat. As this happens, she sings the following.

Anchor baby, my anchor baby

When you are near me, my heart skips a beat

I can hardly stand on my own two feet

Because I love you, I love you, I do

She throws the baby overboard and watches them sink, we see this from the perspective of the mother, watching her smile in eerie peace and harmony, without blinking. We hear a plop and water covers our view, obstructing the light and the song pauses. As the video proceeds, the light/surface gets farther and farther away.

They called me anchor baby.

And so, I drowned and fell to the bottom thrown overboard.

They called me anchor baby.

And as I fell they never blinked an eye.

They called me anchor baby.

And they never knew better.

They called me anchor baby.

And they never sunk.

Music starts playing again.

Anchor baby, my anchor baby

Anchor baby, my anchor baby

Oh, I love you, oh I do

No one could love you like I do.

Music fades as if listening to it from underwater. Camera is still looking up to surface of water, freefalling to earth’s surface. A chain is revealed off-center of camera as if it is attached to us.

They called me anchor baby!!

They called me anchor baby!!

They called me anchor baby!

They called me anchor baby!

They called me anchor baby.

They called me anchor baby.

They call me anchor, baby…

Thud.

Dust covers our view and we are once again, thrown into darkness. A glimmer of light poking through.

“All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

#poetry #script #visual #immigration #anchorbaby #14thamendment #constitution #empowerment #chicano #angelbaby

Caged, incarcerated, in detention.

Detenidos.

Obstruidos.

Casi desaparecidos.

Obstructed from justice, from the warmth of liberty.

In a barren scorched land of spines.

Detained from a life of happiness

by the spineless.

Detained for daring to believe in their right to pursue such happiness.

Detained for their humanity.

Caged, unable to sing a song other than pleas to no longer be wronged.

Incarcerated flesh tied in the middle of a rope being pulled ferociously from all sides.

Dreams deferred before their own eyes, minds never again to be at ease.

Minds that never felt ease.

Trapped. Jailed. Enclosed.

They only wanted to bloom.

Thousands of feet traveled

feet burned

feet ran

feet cracked

searching for better days

better times

better care

better light

Cries for safety

for love

for compassion

obscured by evil rebuttals of their reason to live.

Criminals for choosing to survive, for daring to dream, for wishing to breathe.

Do they know?

Do they know it might not be alright?

Do they know happy endings aren’t always in sight?

Do they know what lies ahead?

Do they know of better beds?

Do they know how to survive the reservation?

Why they endure separation?

Did they ever imagine that claiming their right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness would be labeled the most un-American thing they would ever do?

How would they know?

Would they know they are loved?

Cactus blossoms sprout

Would they know they are being fought for?

Sprout from the veins of their root

Would they know they are not alone?

Their root tied to the earth beneath

Do they know…

To hang on?

To hope

To dream

To fight back?

Do they know their strength?

Do they know our strength?

Do we know?

Desert flowers thrive.

#dreamers #immigration #cactus #blossoms #familyseparation #familydetention

Verde. Chop. Chop. Clack. Clack.

The smell of the nopal’s blood,

blood of my veins, of my ancestors,

oozing onto the sacrificial altar

of my mother’s cutting board,

overtakes my nose, my mind,

places me at home,

placed them,

at home.

Hot summer nights in Mexico, abuela scraping the espinas,

preparing the nopal, who gave so much,

expecting nothing in return,

feeding us life,

showing us history.

We are nopales.

Stronger than the desert heat,

Sustaining life amid the coldest nights.

We are survivors, guarding our outer selves,

instinctively hurting those who come

too near

too

Fast.

Hot summer nights in California, Mamá slicing them open,

simmering them above an open flame,

guiding our tongues and our hearts

to understand that the meaning of home

is wherever they tried to bury us,

where we sprouted,

because we were seeds.

We are nopales.

Waiting to be opened,

so that the smells of the tierra can emanate from our open wounds,

We are life and love held within our corazones

the marker of a pueblo’s birth.

Telling us: Here

You Belong

My Child.

Hot summer nights rushing by in El Barrio,

rushing into nothingness, zooming past it all,

until the soft earthy smell of the nopal

consumes the scent around me,

enveloping me in a blanket of love,

as I look up to see the señor’s ritual on 116th

unleashing our history, rooting it in the memory,

of a land miles and miles away.

We are nopales.

Growing from each other, for each other,

Shooting upwards towards the sky,

Strengthened by every passing minute.

The eagle rests atop us, the snake below.

The oceans are our only border,

The land our guide, the wind our path. 

Strong. Soft.

Water. Earth.

We are sacrifice,

sustenance for Gods.

We are nohpalli.

Markers of home.

Warm embrace at night.

Fresh oasis by day.

Budding life.

We are eternal.

Eternal hearts, eternal flames,

nopal en la frente,

y en el corazón.

#nopales #nopal #corazon #corazones #nopalesdelcorazon  #chicano #poetry #xicano #latinx #noborders #nowall