Maria Testa
Candlewick 2005
I was originally going to bow out of Poetry Friday this week with a collection of original things that, honestly, I wasn't sure were worth the electrons. Instead I discovered a collection of poems that caught me in a funny place. The night before I was ranting on to anyone who would listen (my wife) about all the things that I hated about this country and the way it behaves.
Then I pick up this book. The narrator of these poems weaves a narrative about escaping Kosova during the ethnic cleansing. She was four when her village, her house, were set ablaze. Her parents escaped to America, fleeing for their lives and for the hospitals that would help their daughter heal. And among the poems are diatribes from her father, complaining about America like any good American. I had to step back and think about my previous night's diatribes.
She continues, this girl, growing up in America, and American. Here's the poem that caught my attention.
One Small StickerI remember during the first gulf war, stories from urban centers where anyone who looked vaguely Middle Eastern fell under verbal and physical attack. I remember stories of native-born Pakistanis and Indians and even one Pacific Islander begging people on the news not to burn down their businesses, not to chase them from their homes. Please believe us.
(Like a Neon Sign)
On September 12, 2001
my father pressed
one small sticker,
an American flag sticker,
into a corner
of the outside window
on our front door.
He pressed it firmly,
evenly
perfectly straight,
like it was meant
to last
forever.
It's still there.
And every time I look at it,
that one small sticker,
fading fast
and curling around the edges,
seems to shine as brightly
as a blinking beer sign
in a bar window.
Beer inside!
American inside!
Please believe us.
The Kosava immigrants in the book settled in Lewiston, Maine where a few years after 9-11 the mayor had sent a letter to Somali leaders telling them that the town had "maxed out" on their share of immigrants. Then an anti-immigration rally was planned, and the immigrants organized a pro-immigrant rally. 30 people protested the immigrants, 6000 showed up to celebrate what it meant to be an American from another country.
In very simple language, simple images, small phrases and careful crafting Testa sets down a multi-faceted look at what it means to to be an outsider, an American by choice, and how easily those ideals that we consider rights by birth can easily be twisted into hypocrisy and fed by ignorance.
Why does tolerance intimidate and frighten so many who claim a religious upbringing?
5 comments:
I think the unknown is what scares people more than tolerance does, and I think that ignorance also sometimes trumps faith in those circumstances. I grew up in a Southern town where outsiders were often viewed with suspicion. And the definition of "outsider" expanded or contracted with whoever was talking. And power corrupts.
Thanks for the heads up on this book. It sounds like one I'd like.
Sadly, there is much fear,hypocrisy,intolerance and ignorance in our country today. The voice of this poem, of this book, needs to be heard by every American. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.
I had a "religious upbringing," David. Why do you think I write poems with words such as absolution and annunciation in them? :) I hang onto all the good in it...it taught me mystery and praise and poetry...and yet it taught me fear, too.
The fact that 6000 people showed up at that rally, and that the new house (was it the sticker or a few tolerant people that protected it?) was NOT molested, as it was in Bosnia, encourages me. The thing is, we HAVE a mechanism for discussion of the things that we're afraid of. We have a political process and debate and laws. They don't always work well, but we have them. And no one is jailed for writing poetry. Maybe that's because no one's paying attention to it, or books like this one, but then again, YOU are.
Thanks for a great recommendation. I hadn't seen this book before now.
Well, Sara, my statement was a bit too broad perhaps, and I find myself feeling oddly defensive. I agree, we have mechanisms for discussion but too often that discussion is divisive and the lack of tolerance is usually the most dominant aspect.
Worse, too many speaking but too few listening. Especially to poetry.
"Worse, too many speaking but too few listening. Especially to poetry."
Word, to that.
And I do want to see those "original things" posted here one day. :)
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