On August 25th, the reggaetón artist, Daddy Yankee, publically endorsed Senator John McCain for president of the United States of America, stating the Senator “is a fighter for the Hispanic community and a fighter for the immigration issue.”
The following is an excerpt from John McCain’s website: “John McCain's top immigration priority is to finish securing our borders in an expedited manner… John McCain will implement temporary worker programs that will reflect the labor needs of the United States in both the high-tech and low skilled sectors while protecting the employment opportunities for US workers.”
A letter to Ramón Ayala (better known as Daddy Yankee):
Your Taíno skin does not fool me.
I smell the stench of conquistador blood
running through your veins like rotten sancocho.
You have perfected the art of genocide,
pouring เgasolinaเ over nuestros hijos
and convincing them to light a match
and press it to their very own precious skin.
You would have made Hitler proud,
using that sacred Salsa rhythm to pack clubs
the same way he would pack gas chambers
by telling the Jews they were simply showers.
Your next album will be entitled,
“Daddy Yankee: The modern-day Christopher Columbus.”
The cover – A picture of you in a U.S. Army uniform,
the “NY” on your Yankee fitted – a swastika instead,
counting thirty pieces of gold you collected from your encomienda,
each one displaying a face of one of our missing children you sold out
for the lofty price of 99 cents on iTunes.
Are our people worth less to you than a carton of milk, you fucking Yankee?
To your right on the cover, couples dancing perreo,
each connected to intravenous devices labeled “Property of the United States Government”
because unlike the Spaniards who murdered 90% of the Taínos,
dwindling their population to only 3,000,
you have learned that our people are worth more to you
alive than dead.
One girl has her leg lifted to the beat, revealing her panties;
the words “something I no longer value” written over where her vagina is.
What if this was your daughter Yamilet?
How many platinum records would it take for you to sell her out, too, you fucking Yankee?
Everyone in this club scene is too drunk and delirious to notice
that they are dancing on top of the graves of the people of Vieques,
Six feet below – their coffins lay:
disposed Petri dishes filled with uranium-infected experiments
I still call hermanos;
I still call abuela.
Tell me, you proud Yankee,
What would you tell a child poisoned by mercury and dying from cancer
as his hands, eyelids, lips and tongue tremor from the effects
all because this “great nation” had to test bombs to kill more brown people?
Would you just raise the volume of your latest hit single
and pretend they were dancing to your ritmo because you’re just that hot?
I didn’t know John McCain knew how to speak Spanish,
but the other day I swore I saw a clip of him singing,
“esta tan linda, esta tan rica, tienete tremendo CULO!”
and he was referring to you:
his Mami Yankee, Raymond.
No, don’t dare call yourself Ramón!
because even the accent mark over the “o” in your name told me he had to leave;
too afraid your sickness was contagious like smallpox.
So I took him in and gave him a home right next to the accent over the “o” in my last name
so now you can pronounce it in both Portuguese and Spanish.
One day your Tell-Tale Heart
will cause you to admit your crimes
and scream, “Tear up the planks!”
And when they do, to your surprise,
there will be no dead corpses of children you corrupted.
Just an empty, open, wood coffin
with a single word carved by Enriquillo,
“Since time begins to slow down with higher speeds,
It can be shown that at the speed of light
it stops totally
and beyond that
begins to run backwards!”
So I thought up a time-machine in my mind
and wrote this poem at a fraction of a second faster than
299,792,458 metres per second,
accelerating appropriately until I arrived at my pre-meditated destination,
flashing
past
memories
as if God were a cartoonist
and had condensed my existence into a flip book,
using his left thumb to maneuver the pages flawlessly,
the same way I would view family photo albums when I was ten,
starting from the back cover and flipping towards the beginning
until the distance inbetween my parents as they posed fraudulently became closer,
watching as their stiff arms at their sides began to s t r e t c h
towards one another like trapeze artists until their hands clasped once again,
seeing their smiles resurrect like Bodhidharma
as I got shorter
and short-
er
with each flip of the page
until I finally
disappeared.
Insecurity would lead me to believe that their recovery was a result of return-
ing to a time when I was not born.
If I would have discovered this gift of time travel back then
I would have traveled back in time until my existence split into
my father’s sperm and my mother’s egg.
That way I could have committed suicide twice to prevent my birth from ever occurring
or better yet:
continued my journey into the past
through the chemical composition of my parents,
convincing them both to name me Isaac.
That way God could command them to sacrifice the very thought of me;
only this time, the Angel of the Lord would not intervene,
and Abraham would complete his Olah.
I’m quickly approaching 7AM on June 28th, 2008
and I begin to slow down my thoughts as if carefully
landing
a Boeing 787.
I arrive at my destination.
This is the day my mother dies;
the day I chose not to go to the hospital because she and I had not spoken for five years.
I arrive at Columbia Presbyterian
and the nurse directs me to her room.
I walk in and my mother turns her head away
shameful of her condition –
Patches of skin cancer removed from 50% of her face.
I want to tell her that there’s nothing to be ashamed of because she is like the Parthenon,
weathered but still beautiful;
tell her that she is the Goddess Athena and death is Poseidon and
as Legend has it, she goes on to defeate Poseidon by offering the city of Athens an Olive Tree
that proved to be more useful than Poseidon’s salty water.
So rename me Athens, mother, for you have already won the city of my heart…
If you were to put my body up to the Sun and see through my skin
you would still see your love running through my veins.
But from the look on your proud face it seems as if you’ll be needing some of this love back;
and I’d gladly use the same sharp tongue I once cursed you with
to slit my veins and perform a blood transfusion
but time is running out…
so I gently place the defibrillator of my hand on your chest and
wait for my conscious to say “clear,”
hoping the electric shock of my forgiveness can resuscitate your smile
the same way I would when I was ten by viewing family photo albums,
starting from the back cover…
Clear! I love you.
Clear! I’m sorry.
Clear! Forgive me!
My mother flat lines as my alarm clock goes off:
a cold reminder that time travel can only be used to remember, never to change the past.
And the only souvenir that I carry in my memory as luggage from this trip
is regret.
Everytime that I see my father's hands
I see poetry:
Metaphors of struggle and beauty
written on palms of resilience;
their titles
"Poverty" and "Brilliance."
I liken the tears that fell from my father's eyes
onto the school hallways that he swept
to the first drops of rain to hit starving, cracked soil;
only the love that soil had for that first refreshing drop
withers in comparison to the love those school hallways represented
of my father's love for me.
You see, not every man is strong enough to leave behind
every single one of his desires
so that his child can experience every single one of his desires.
And in his service, "Poverty" was written on my father's right hand.
He endured his daily toil by equating each swipe of his broom to the value of opportunity his children would have in his new country.
1,001, 1,002, 1,003…a new Encyclopedia Britannica set.
100,001, 100,002, 100,003…a new computer.
1,000,001, 1,000,002, 1,000,003…college tuition.
"And even with all the tools that you provided me with, Dad,
I still could never write one line of prose or poetry
more inspiring than your life story.
You glisten of love and passion like the words of Hafiz
and you don't even know it.
The stanzas of calluses on your palms were created
with the splinters from brooms and mops,
not pencils
and since arrogance is blind,
I wrote this poem in Braille so that my generation could feel your magnificence.
Each time they come to the end of one of your hard earned sentences they will come to revelations
because your periods mark where nails once lived prior to your resurrection.
And yes Dad, I am a believer.
I believe that God is good to those who are faithful
and, even though I wasn't there on the night when "Brilliance" blossomed from the bud of your left palm,
I can see everything that happened clearly…
doubt crept into the corridors of your mind like Satan
slithering his way towards Adam on a branch and mocked you:
He said,
‘Even with your long days struggling for your pitiful savings, do you think your son really has a chance?
He is the son of a pitiful peasant and YOU are that pitiful peasant!’”
And my father fell to his knees sobbing and began to pray and raindrops everywhere envied his love for me, cursing the earth like a jealous girlfriend.
"And even God envied your love for me, Dad,
and he spoke to you, didn't he?
He told you to separate your hands that where together in prayer
like Moses parted the Red Sea
and when you did,
you noticed that the ink from "Poverty" had made an
impression on your left palm that you couldn’t make out
and God spoke:
‘My Son, in a holy tongue,
Poverty spelled backwards translates into Brilliance.’
And when you looked back down you smiled because you could see it and then you began to rejoice because underneath the title there was a single name…Daniel.”
You see, I am the brilliant poem my father wrote
with the ink he extracted from his humble heart.
My sole purpose for performing spoken word is
to make my father the most famous poet ever heard.
And tonight I'll cry thinking about how much I love him
and raindrops everywhere will curse the Earth
and even God will be jealous.
And my tears will wash away the footprints of poets past on this stage and polish its surface into a mirror.
And I wish my Dad where here tonight because if he were…
I'd invite him up on stage and ask him to look down to see his
true reflection…
His broom now a scepter bathed in 1,000,003 rubies,
his janitor uniform replaced by the finest silk,
a crown upon his head…
and I'd kneel down to honor this king
and offer him my palms to pay my respect, their titles
"Appreciation" and "Gratitude."
