My Take on Washington
You could say politics runs in my blood. That doesn't mean I was comfortable in D.C.
Dear Reader,
I grew up close to Washington, DC, and my mother was a journalist, so you could say politics ran in my blood. That doesn't mean I was comfortable there. I've always been bewildered by DC, with its ornate marble facades, hollow halls of justice, and harsh inequality. Still, I felt a sense of consistency in the place, truly believing its Greco-Roman monuments would never crumble. Truly believing Rome would never fall.
There's been a temporary halt to the federal shutdown, so the government will continue to govern, and Mueller is taking his slow, deliberate pace while arresting the president's advisors, so the president remains the president. But now, nothing seems that certain. I am reminded of Jeff Hardin's poem, at the end of this email, when he writes, "Monuments once cherished / have been, are being, / will be effaced / by rain, by salt. There is no you, not fixed," and so it can be with a whole government and country.
It is also my great honor this week to present to you a touching poem by Gabrielle Daniels, who was inspired by a newly unearthed short film of a kiss between an African American couple in 1898, a poem deep with symbolism by Richard Garcia, who writes about the US-Mexico border wall, and an illuminating poem by Abigail Carl-Klassen, who writes on border violence with a fierce eye towards history.
May you be well amidst all tumult.
J Spagnolo
Editor
Something Else Again
By Gabrielle Daniels
For Saint Suttle and Gertie Brown
Evidence of things seldom seen
emerging from the past
of ropes and bending boughs,
threats that happened
for even talking back, man or woman,
and of black marias making mischief with
dark room cut-ups for only thirty seconds
to a minute or two for the nickelodeons.
A blind over anyone’s eyes
against the truth of seeing
real life.
Something else going on.
Negroes kissing. Imagine that.
Three times they kiss,
swap spit, or touch teeth,
barely the tongue, and embrace
bashfully. They enfold us.
She slaps him playfully.
Affectionately. Nearly slapstick.
But not quite vaudeville.
Do they wonder how long should they hold it?
Are they taking direction,
scripted, or improvising?
From who they have been
and what they have heard
are they simply catching a breath?
When tenderness was something innocent
and not just a livelihood?
Something else going on.
Are their eyes shuttered
in bliss after each kiss?
Or open to miracles
awakened? I cannot tell.
Nothing hinting at fidelity,
not even a promise to return
elsewhere beyond that length reeling out.
Just enjoyment, fleeting but appealing
to anyone who could be shy
or who could be goofy at the moment
of connection,
instead of just manly or womanly
as the stories and the poems—
those textbooks—say.
And what would that mean
among the shades of gray and white
ruffling her collar,
in the oiled crinkle of his close-cut hair?
The shine of their giggles, though,
strikes flint
before the advent
of Ipana and Pepsodent.
(Did they know each other?
Were they a team,
for more than a moment?)
Hence their ease. Their artlessness
with each other, if not the camera
which is there, always,
framing them. At least
we know their names—
recovered but not famous.
Special but just everyday.
And now we see them
acting like
something real was going on.
There Was A Man
By Richard Garcia
There was a man who leaned a ladder against a brick wall. It was the only wall for miles and miles. It was the only ladder for miles and miles. The afternoon wind, fierce, whistled through the aluminum rungs of the ladder, making a lovely sound that could be heard for miles and miles if there had been anyone else nearby to hear it. The man sat down under the ladder with his back against the wall.
What They Don't Say About Border Violence
By Abigail Carl-Klassen
They cry “border violence,” even though
they brought the violence to us,
building their prisons and war
training centers on top of the ocotillo,
creosote and sotol. Their Humvees storming
replica cities with Arabic lettering.
“Hajjis” versus “Joes” with a quick stop
off at the Orogrande for some snacks
afterwards. Before Tornillo there was
Holloman Air Force Base, Fort Bliss,
White Sands Missile Range and unexploded
munitions off U.S. 54. Before Karnes
and Dilley there was the Crystal City
Alien Enemy Detention Facility and Texas
Rangers who murdered thousands of Tejanos
and Mexicans without consequence.
Before the migrant caravans, there was the School
of the Americas, El Mozote, Battalion 316,
and Berta Caceres. Before Tijuana, they gassed
protesters at Standing Rock, Ferguson, Occupy
and Tahrir Square. Since 2012, tear gas
has been used by CBP in 126 border “incidents.”
Before the Final Solution, the U.S. Public Health
Service used Zyklon B to “disinfest” hundreds
of thousands of Mexicans at the border. Domestic
workers, day laborers, and refugees. Photos
of the El Paso Disinfection Station appeared
in a scientific journal in Germany in 1938.
You
By Jeff Hardin
“We can’t restore our civilization with somebody else’s babies.”
—Steve King (U.S. Representative, Republican-Iowa)
You are not you,
not the you
you assume.
The cells in your body
have been replaced.
Monuments once cherished
have been, are being,
will be effaced
by rain, by salt.
There is no you, not fixed,
at least. At most,
you is a concept, a fiction,
a boast. It is no more
here than wind
passing through,
breath of a ghost.