It is not easy
for me to say
I am a stranger
in this white world
but I am.
I awoke one day
rainbow Boricua white boy
floating in a suburb
feeling the need to explode.
Looking for the right mirror
and
none of the
mainstream labels
seemed to fit.
I found the marrow
of the matter
solely by chance.
My white ancestors
Scots/Germans/Irish
helped build this
glorious monstrosity
giving “us”
more free time and
faster transportation
quicker communication
so we can send words
to more people
we will never meet and
help each other build
more walls more privacy
until we are all
completely alone
together.
They are my people too.
The roots of my tree
also go back to
España, gypsy mother
Roman father of
passionate faith and
dignity and blinding
greed/conquistadors
took Taino African concubines
and begat Puerto Rico
reinforcing the notion
that slavery
begins at home and love,
rage, suppression
and servitude begat
farmers who lived in
music and the heat
of tropical sunny
colonial slavery
with a twist.
They are my family as well.
And I walk
among these cousins
apart and watching
a visitor
in somebody else’s
museum.
Not to say
that there were no
connections/there
were are many many
of great strength
no
no
nothing so simple
as all that.
I often felt
I was inside a cave.
At home in subways, alleys,
basements,
dark forests.
None of this
had a name
until the family secret
was accidentally released.
I always wanted stories.
Impossibly curious
12-year-old always
wanting family stories
quizzed my
grandparents, uncles,
cousins and my
beleaguered parents
until one day
my mother
shot a laser
through the fog.
“Well hijo,” my
beloved mother conceded,
“Yes, hijo, your abuelo’s
family had Taino blood.
But it’s so far back,
so far away. The Tainos
are extinct mi’jo. Our family
is from Spain.”
That was it
that made sense
all of a sudden
it had a name
I had a name
Taino. Taino
I would mutter
to myself and
it remained
my secret. I knew
what was in the books.
The word in the books
was ‘extinct’. Dead of
disease and genocide and
I knew all that
but Taino did not
feel dead to me.
Taino ancestors
explained my love
for the earth in
a way that cannot
be translated
into English or Spanish.
These epiphanies
came in waves
knocked me out
of linear language
expression and
stayed
just below the surface.
Then the waves came
again
many years later
I rode in a truck
in a train in a
subway emerged
into the light
out of the cave
into East Harlem
barrio Fifth Avenue
the poorer end of
museum row and
in El Museo del Barrio
Taino celebration
elation to see
dancers and photos
sacred objects
and Taino faces.
It was uplifting
and confusing causing
outrageous battle
with my linear mind
telling me
look at your Irish frame and your
Celtic name and
look in the mirror
look in the mirror
and I caught
my reflection
in the glass of
a case surrounding
a cemi and I saw
myself smiling.
This is it
Taino
you make sense
this is
my secret no
longer this
is it the missing
piece of my puzzle and I am
complete
and I am
complete.
Rick Kearns is a poet, freelance writer and musician of Puerto Rican (Spanish/Taino) and European background based in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. This poem comes from his collection Rufino’s Secret, published by Foothills Publishing in December 2011.