A Country in the DNA
By Niall Twohig
James Baldwin in France
Dear Aislynn,
Just yesterday
a student asked me:
“Would you like to leave
this country?”
I wonder if it’s
because of my critique.
I told the student
that I’ve been in the USA
so long it’s in my DNA.
To imagine a separation
is impossible.
* * *
Just yesterday
I told my classes
about my family’s unrequited
American Dream:
The promise:
a new and better life.
The reality:
Ma working
back-to-back-to-back shifts.
Da feeling a failure
for bringing home measly checks.
Constant fights, mostly over money
that wasn’t there.
I didn’t see it then:
The Monster that relishes
our sacrifices.
The Monster that feeds
off broken dreams
and broken people.
The Monster that grows
secure as we grow insecure.
The Monster that haunted
Ma and Da with the thought:
“I am to blame.”
That haunted
me with the thought:
“They are to blame.”
* * *
Just yesterday
your Aunty Mollie texted me:
“Happy 37 years in the U.S.A!”
37 years since
we set out from Ireland!
One of my oldest memories
is of that flight.
I can see the seats.
I can taste the peanuts.
I can feel the panic
of near collision
as we approach JFK.
The flight is so clear.
What’s before it is void.
It’s as if I became
conscious in that crossing.
It’s as if I was born
in that trip across the Atlantic.
I’m 41, but
in many ways
I’m 37.
* * *
“Would you like to leave this country?”
To leave would be difficult.
But maybe necessary
for a period of time.
I tell my student that
James Baldwin
fled this country
even though he was a native son.
To be, he had to be on different soil.
To be, he had to be apart
from this land he loved in so many ways,
this land that hated him in so many more.
Can one ever really flee
a country under your skin
a country in the DNA?
* * *
Another student asked:
“Isn’t it ungrateful for immigrants to complain?”
He says it’s like coming into a house
and criticizing your host.
It’s not like that.
Because immigrants built this house
(on stolen land).
It’s more like coming into a house
that you worked to build
that you work to maintain.
It’s like not being allowed
into that house,
into its warmth.
It’s like not being
invited to the place where
people eat
even though you worked
to gather and prepare the food.
* * *
Just today,
we walked you down
to school.
You all turned to the flag
to recite the Pledge.
Many parents,
including myself,
stand silent.
One mother angrily
says: why aren’t any adults saying it!
Under my breath
I muster a pathetic
response: Because we don’t have to.
I wish I could say more.
I wish I could show her
the Monster
that broke Ma’s knees,
the Monster
that told her to go back home,
the Monster
that drops bombs
in freedom’s name.
Dr. King
saw those three
monsters.
They silenced him.
So, I remain
silent as you pledge.
* * *
In my silence,
my heart pledges
to the boundless
tribeless whole
to which I am a part,
to which that angry mother is a part,
to which this nation is a part,
to which this nation’s “enemies” are a part,
to which Russians are a part,
to which Ukrainians are a part,
to which Israelis are a part,
to which Palestinians are a part.
I pledge to that—
to that One.
* * *
Last year,
I remember,
you asked me:
Daddy, do you hate this country?
This gave me pause.
I responded:
Well, you’re this country too.
And I love you.