No dogs Negroes Mexican

 

For the ever-dwindling number of us who saw most of the 20th century, Donald Trump's racial and religious rants pale in comparison to what has been heard on the streets and within the hallowed halls of local and national legislatures. Not that those sentiments have gone from our national scene; they merely have gone underground and been prettied-up.

Simply put, Donald Trump is bringing back a time-demonstrated, American tradition. That custom of class-marginalization exists not only in the spoken word but in the very real physical and psychological damage wrought thereby.

The following poem, penned by this writer several decades ago, dramatizes how that deleterious word and deed is applied.

 

AMERICAN HERITAGE

The voices of doom are heard in the land.
They ask: What is it they all want now?
We share all this room, we lend them a hand;
we must have done something wrong, somehow.

They tend now to crow and hyphenate so,
A tendency quite disconcerting.
Equality's now the law, don't you know;
They're not constitution'ly hurting.

The answer comes back, a whip's snappy crack:
Where were you when we were there suffering?
We tried to get in; you ordered us back;
A deaf ear you turned to our uttering.

You sewed up a flag and had a nice war,
Declaring this land for humanity.
We wondered what all the fighting was for,
As we saw no change in your sanity.

You first stole our land and locked us away,
And called us inhuman and savages.
Through games of chance, now, we make mis'ry pay;
You say we take unfair advantages.

We sailed from that old Dark Continent's dock,
In chains and in abject humility.
But, we arrived, not upon Plymouth Rock;
Our voyage was meant for utility.

The South rode high on our bent-bodies' sweat;
The North chafed, and sabers went a-rattling.
Abe Lincoln was forced—the challenge he met;
Reluctantly, chains fell a-clattering.

But, freedom, we found, was short-lived; what's more,
Old Jim Crow would make us rue the day.
Sans acre, sans mule, for the nouveaux poor;
The next hundred years, there'd be hell to pay.

You welcomed us in to drive spike to rail,
We united both your coasts, east to west.
You ridiculed us, you pulled our pigtails;
You drove us hard, kept your feet on our chests.

Then, when the building of rails was all done,
And we sought our rightful place among you,
We were stopped by the Exclusion Law gun;
Which meant deportation for "Fu Manchu."

 

Uncle Sam Imperialism

 

You took San Juan Hill, chasing away Spain
From Cuba and the Caribbean Sea.
You used the "Big Stick" to buy sugar cane;
Puerto Rico was passed along for free.

Then, we Boricuas became instant wards,
In Uncle Sam's tender and loving care.
He gave us "free rein," but he held the cords;
Now, politics is our national fare.

Citizens of the U.S. we became,
With all of the customary trappings,
Including queries: Which race do you claim?
But, what of our ethnic overlappings?

The U.S. replaced Imperial Japan
In Subic Bay, far in the Pacific.
You invited us aboard your tin cans;
You told us the view would be terrific.

We found out the truth, when we all signed up;
You wanted us for sea-going servants.
But, on the mainland, we really wised up;
A brown skin can create a disturbance.

 

Japs keep moving

 

When Pearl Harbor broke, we muttered, 'Oh, shit;
"it will be just a matter of time, now."
But, we couldn't guess, then, the worst of it;
The midnight knock would soon cause quite a row.

Our West Coast homes we abandoned in days,
For stables, then camps of concentration
Awaiting in vain, through our confused haze,
The German/Italian consternation.

You say we're "Wetbacks," who sleep in the sun,
But in the fields, it's our wet backs that break.
We fill your markets; we tend to your young;
It's we who put the food upon your plate.

The Southwest was ours, at nature's behest;
We are a people, civilized and proud.
Your destiny came to be "Manifest."
What brass for a Johnny-come-lately crowd!

So, stop your whining; the border's intact.
There are no hordes to justify your fear.
iChingada madre, pendejos!—In fact,
¿No se dan cuenta?—We're already here!

The voices of doom are heard in the land.
They ask: What is it they all want now?
We share all this room; we lend them a hand;
We must have done something wrong, somehow.

They tend now to crow and hyphenate so,
A tendency quite disconcerting.
Equality's now the law, don't you know;
They're not constitution'ly hurting.

 

Curtis W. Long

Curtis W. Long

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
Recent Articles
Murderous Missing Link
ROBOTICS IN ASCENDANCY
VIRULENT LETTER PROMPTS CRY FOR PUERTO RICO INDEPENDENCE
A-O-C – ONE, TWO, THREE
PROPOSED POST-POTUS POSTULATIONS
OPERATION WETBACK, PART DEUX