When it comes to my poetry, I rarely get that feeling of "Ah! It's finished!" No. It's usually more like, "This is okay...it sounds pretty much there...but what if I changed this one little thing...?" That's what happened with "Legazpi".
This poem popped into my head back in October after an unusual metro ride. Suddenly, I was itching to write. For weeks, I worked through drafts in my mind and eventually in my Moleskine journal. Then, in November, I made it into a Word doc (which, for me, means I'm actually going to write this poem!). I wrote a few more drafts, sent a copy to family and friends, got their feedback and then...left it alone. I completely abandoned it for about two months so I could get some distance from it. Finally, the other day, my roommate asked me after seeing my Gmail to-do list, "You still haven't posted that poem?!" So here goes.
My life in Spain has been my constant struggle with the Spanish language. My tongue is clumsy and doesn't pronounce the soft Cs properly or will tap too hard on the Ts. I speed through words with Rs and Ls since I've had problems with those beastly letters since I could talk.
On top of the normal frustration of learning a new language, I'm also an English major, through 'n through. I spent most of my college career reading and writing fiction, poetry and essays. I was a tour guide, meaning I had to be ready to talk to anybody and feel comfortable doing it. Basically, I'm a pretty good communicator, and I enjoy it, too. Therefore, when I want to say simple, useful phrases in Spanish like "How do I get from here to here?" or "I'd like the cheaper chicken," I get...grrr! But what if I couldn't talk at all? What if, instead of 50% of the Spanish spoken to me, my ears picked up none of it? Then, what would my daily life be like?
A month ago, I collapsed into a seat on a train heading back into the city after tutoring my headmaster's son, English irregular and phrasal verbs still bouncing around in my head. Two girls boarded, speaking loud, gossipy Spanish. Then a group of young German boys sat to my right. I couldn't understand a word of their guttural exclamations other than "yah!". I pulled out my novel (in English) and began to drown out the language cocktail. A few minutes later, I realized my two neighbors to my left had been awfully quiet. Then I noticed them signing. Instantly, I had a dorky moment of "I'm surrounded by 4 languages!" I believe this trip contrasts in an interesting way to my journey described below in "Legazpi".
I'd love any and all feedback. I'm not sure if this is finished, but it's time I shared.
Legazpi
Deaf to the words in Spanish floating
over the click-clack-screech and squeal
of the metro, yellow line south,
I sit,
headphones wedged in my ears.
We slow then stop.
An old man, the color of café con leche,
unbends from his blue
plastic seat across from me, hikes
up his trousers with a jerk
of his thumbs and exits.
My eyes follow his slow form
until the passengers
waiting on the Legazpi platform
outside my car’s automatic doors
board – a mother taking her
daughter to primary school.
My school is on the Southside, full
of Moroccan immigrant children shouting
in the stairwells, always trailing their rolling
backpacks that smack, with
purpose, each and every concrete
stair.
And this girl, now seated in the old
man’s warmed plastic chair, clutches
her own cursed contraption. A snap
of her head, and she stares into my
light eyes with one, uncovered
dark eye. A sterile, skin-toned
patch covers the other. Her pink,
bottle-thick glasses magnify – pink,
like her headband, backpack, and
sweatpants with grimy cuffs.
Clutching a pole as the metro lurches
forward, the mother leans down and
speaks into the plastic shell encircling the girl’s
ear, attached to the pink glasses. I push my
earbuds in deeper and look across
to the dark tunnel wall outside the window,
to my reflection, until a blur catches
my eye, and I focus on an African
boy, maybe sixteen, standing
further down the car, telling a grand
story with swoops and splashes
of his hands in the air for his sister’s
benefit. His sister nods. I pluck
out my headphones. A suction pop
and only the sound
of the metro scraping the tunnel walls
fills the vacuum. The sister nods again
and signs back. Across from me, the daughter
tugs on her mother’s free hand.
One look around the rocking metro
car, and I realize I am
the only passenger without
glasses, patch, or hearing aid.
The sudden sound of the recording
announcing the next stop makes me start
– Hospital 12 de octubre –
An hour later, as I watch
a fellow teacher smack the back
of an eraser against the blackboard
to silence a rambunctious class
of 2nd graders, I recall
the lines of mute children
queuing at the slowing metro’s doors.
