A View of An American Tale

(This is a reworking of my earlier post, "These Colors."  The woman in that poem, based on a co-worker, called out to me, and I had to make her the subject of a poem of her own.  We've all met, will all meet someone like that woman - someone who is on this soil but not of it, but no less an American than any of us.  Think about that this September 11th, and every other day of the year.)


An American Tale

She stands in my office door,
kohl-rimmed, bloodshot eyes,
kohl black perfectly coiffed halo,
skin ashen pale and beet red all at once,
thrusts a piece of still damp, still warm piece of
paper from the printer into my trembling hands;
an eagle clutching in razor sharp talons
an American flag, and screaming yellow banner,
bold black letters make a bold declaration:
"THESE COLORS DON'T RUN!"

Run as she did, as her family did,
from tyranny, from terror
so many years ago, to
safe ground, safe passage,
safe harbor, a lamp lit beside a golden door,
guiding her to freedom,
now fleeting, now under attack.
 
"They will not defeat us," she says,
voice dripping with derision,
with defensiveness, with dread;
kohl eyes, endless, seeing everything,
seeing nothing all at once.
 
“The will not defeat us,” she says once more, firmer,
fiery, like ruthless roman candles aflame
far away, right next door;
she says, frightened and frail,
like gray flannel pinstriped shooting stars
flying through sinister blood soaked snow,
soot colored with confusion, with chaos,
sinister soot piercing peace.

I want to hug her.
I want to run to her, run with her,
the way she sprinted to this soil
for shelter, this home of the brave,
but I am not brave.
I cannot say, "Don't be afraid."
I cannot move, cannot speak,
cannot begin to comprehend her fear.
 
Cannot comprehend
the threat of being labeled
terrorist
by people just seconds ago
trusted friends because she is
on this soil, but not of it.
   
Cannot comprehend
being made to feel as though
she is the enemy because,
at her desk, on her phone, she casually speaks
to her mother in her mother tongue,
easier to embrace, easier to incorporate
into daily chatter than everyday English.

Cannot comprehend
how others fight fear, vanquish the violation
of unprovoked violence by lashing out
at the first seemingly foreign face they see,
instead of fighting the fragility wrought
when terror taints our souls, our soil,
by responding with forgiveness, with tolerance,
with the need to rebuild, restore
mutual respect.

She is just as American as I.

She did not say to those around her,
"Either you are with us or you are against us,"
as the world as we knew became distorted 
by smoke, by soot, by storm clouds of invasion.

She did not flinch when those around her

mocked her for not speaking English, 
"Don’t you know you’re in America now?" 
murmured under hostile breath,
disguised by disarming, dishonest smiles.

She did not sit silent, stupefied,

in front of those around her
then vanish, vaporize into thin air,
shield herself in subterfuge to lie in wait,
to seek unfounded vengeance. She instead

stood up, summoned her strength,
and did the best she could,
all she could for all around her
as her world, our world 
fell about feet into fetid, foul ash.

She called us to action, bid us to be brave 
with a still damp, still warm piece of paper
thrust into trembling hands by a trembling hand,

In return, I simply say, “Thank you,”
to someone just as American,
perhaps even more American, as I.

(c) 2011 - Tracey Morris, All rights reserved
 

(Photo from Rufus Wainwright's "All Days Are Nights: Songs for Lulu.")