as I stand in the Catholic school classroom alongside a gallery of white faces, red hair, blond hair, white shirts, white blouses, plaid skirts, and black pants
Burnt American Dreams (Image created with A.I.)
and the nuns, covered head to toe in their black hijabs, led us in a solemn tribute to a country that tells me
I am an American,
But they were just joking because I’m not really like them
My mother and father (Photographer unknown)
My father is from Puerto Rico My mother is from the Dominican Republic
(Wherever the hell that is)
And even though I was born at Lincoln Hospital in the South Bronx, it doesn’t give me the right to think I’m an American citizen.
It was just an accident of time and place.
The truth is, I could have been born anywhere, like the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico.
(I keep telling them Puerto Ricans are American citizens since 1917)
Old Glory (Created with A.I.)
They keep telling me They don’t care because it’s nothing more than an island where they take the whole family on vacation to San Juan beaches
and the rainforest whose name they can’t quite pronounce And anyway, they say Puerto Rico, along with that other place, the Dominican Republic, doesn’t send its best and brightest
Except rapists, murderers, bank robbers, and juvenile delinquents
They tell me I’m not a real American, not a blue-blooded American
Red, White, and Blue (Image created with A.I.)
They tell me, look at me
Do I have freckles, red hair, and black hair like those nice Irish and Eyetalian kids whose parents hang out at the social club across the street from Saint Rita’s Parochial School
Sipping espresso, playing cards, and kissing the ring of the old man who shows up in a Cadillac with a fat driver, his pinkie ring, shiny suits, silk overcoats, and shoes that weren’t bought at Buster Brown
And all I can think of as I stand at full attention, with my right hand above my heart, screaming louder than the other kids in the class,
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,
Trying to prove that Yes, I am an American
(Yes, I know being an American like them is not all what it should be, but it's the principle. I was born here, for better or worse.)
And they’re laughing because I’m screaming
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America
Louder and louder and louder
Welcome to America (Image by antonio pedro ruiz )
Sister Mary Joseph Jesus
is now looking at me sternly
and warning
that she will not tolerate anyone
making fun of the Pledge of Allegiance
to the flag of the
United States of America
Even people who claim to be Americans
just because they were born here by accident
in the greatest country in the world
instead of somewhere else
Like on a boat called SS Marine Tiger
or one of those propeller planes
that come from a foreign country
like Puerto Rico
or the Dominican Republic
Destined for LaGuardia
or Idlewild Airport in New York,
where black and brown people arrive
to infect this great nation with foreign blood
(Did I tell you Puerto Ricans are American citizens since 1917?)
And strange customs
And strange music
And strange language
(Is that Spanish? That's not even American)
I pledge allegiance
to the flag of the United States of America
and to the Republic
for which it stands.
Because I was told by my father from Puerto Rico
and my mother from the Dominican Republic
They came to the United States of America
because they were told
by their uncles,
aunts,
and cousins,
and by radio shows,
newspapers,
and movies before there was television
this here United States of America
is the home of the free
and home of the brave
America the beautiful
(Okay, it was an illusion, but they wanted to escape the hard times of their countries)
Cracked Illusions (Image by mediamodifier from Pixabay)
And because people have been coming from countries like Ireland, England, France, Italy, Germany, and Spain
They thought they would also be welcomed They were looking for the same damn things
One Nation under God indivisible
(While I keep screaming louder and louder)
With liberty and justice for all
The Spilled Blood of our Ancestors (Created with A.I.)
Everyone is looking at me
They can hear me screaming
I am an American because I was born at Lincoln Hospital in the South Bronx.
My father was an American. My mother became an American. I am an American. I was born in the United States of America.
The voice stops I drop my hand from my chest smile broadly on my brown face under my black hair through my brown eyes and nod
This is who I am—an American.
This here United State of America is my home. Period.
My life has been a rollercoaster of experiences, from The Bronx to Washington, D.C., to Hartford, Connecticut, and Los Angeles, California—first as a seminarian studying to become a priest, then as a local and national community organizer, a radio host and producer, a journalist and producer in both radio and television, a government bureaucrat, a youth mentor, and a small business consultant. Besides those roles, I’ve also tried my hand at being a jewelry vendor, a motorcycle courier, an airport shuttle driver, and a bartender in a German alpine-themed bar.
I am currently working on several writing projects, including a hybrid creative memoir about my time in Washington, D.C. This project serves as a personal and psychological exploration of addiction and trauma, offering an honest look at how someone can fall into a bottomless pit of despair, losing all judgment and moral clarity. Told through flashbacks, the memoir explores a complex theme: the physical and emotional experiences that shaped my struggles with addiction, ending with the scandal that would forever haunt me.
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