I don't intend insult, but remember: poetry is not to be rushed through, but taken in and understood by means of tiny, loving sips. Let this be but a moment in your online rushin'Ndither'n where—if you choose to go further—you slow down a moment and feel each line, or even speak it aloud.

Little Sister Born in This Land

to Vicky

When you slip
slowly and lovingly
through my fingers
I cannot hold you
and explain a thousand things
Each time you smile
and show me your shoes with buckles
or tell me a story
of space flights
(How you would love to be a princess
in those absurd and bloody wars)
Each time you intrigue me
with your riddles
with your words
that will always be foreign
to our experience

It isn't a reproach
sister
Little sister born in this land
It's just that you will never know
of hands nesting
(Is there anywhere in your childhood
a smiliar feeling?)
Once upon a time
there was a boy
on paving stones so white
and excursion on foot
toys made of tin
There was also mystery
in the ravines
There were evil pirates
and brave corsairs
There were lessons
for carving men
out of stone
There was caramel candy
and sweet potato pudding

It isn't a reproach
sister
Little sister born in this land
It's just that you have only
the joy of Disney heroes
Because you will smile
when the ingenious man
behind the cartoons
makes of you
of every child
a little clown
plastic and ridiculous

When you slip away
slowly and lovingly
I cannot invent
another childhood for you
cannot offer you mine
also nourished by heroes
but tasting of palm leaf
and mamoncillo
It did not suffer the mockery
of expensive toys
that the deceptive
ghost of December
brings to you

When you slip away
slowly and lovingly
we cannot bury together
in the backyard
(That warm and always
open earth)
the models
that will take hold of you
that already stalk you
from their cardboard boxes
and their printed letters
on a glass of milk
or Coca-Cola

It isn't a reproach
sister
Little sister born in this land

Elías Miguel Muñoz, Little Sister Born in This Land

What can I say, after that? Señor Muñoz captures it so powerfully—that fading, that bleaching out of a potent piece of the soul. The receding of a culture and a history. The enslavement to a culture who desires not to build character, or instill morality or encourage health and respect toward important elements of our being and our community, but one that seeks to hook us as children; like little junkies, to spin the young mind out with fantasy bereft of enrichment, with the motive to addict them to the monster of commercialism.

It moves me very much because I think of my father and what I have not had by growing up out of the reach of Chicano culture, Mexican culture for most of my life. Because it makes me think of my oldest daughter who is not living with me, and of my youngest son, who does not, either. The poem makes me think of family, tradition, loss of important and small things.

But I have hope, too. Because I am not blind anymore. And I work every day at remaining clear. I am working every day at getting back those things I feel make me whole. No, I can never replace my childhood. But neither is my childhood over in the important sense, the sense of being flexible, and open, and hopeful. And if I can come around, so can anyone. It gives me hope because there will be no more corporate brand names for my children from me, no more "printed letters" on glasses of their sustenance or drink; there will be no corporate logos on their clothes, and there is no allegiance to Hallmark or Disney or to wrapped dolls stamped and milled around the world in the millions. Because we can always awaken, and help others awaken.

There are things we can draw strength from, and things that draw strength by draining us. We must know what it is we need to be strong, and whole, and happy, and proud. We cannot abdicate the essence of our peoples and our histories in the name of Amerikan Kulture.