El Proyecto de la literatura puertorriqueña

I sometimes feel like I am drowning  

in a sea of sounds so guttural and loud at times  

that I find myself silently staring at mouths  

as if they spewed fire.  

I hear the people that look like me  

make noises like chanting 

and I can only question my validity  

as one of them.  

Outside of those red-colored doors,  

I am a mountain.  

I have grown  

like all of the bamboo that was brought here,  

strong, flourished, fearlessly taking over land,  

building bridges.  

The people that look like me say 

that the ones made of bamboo are bad.  

That they lack culture,  

water seeps through its hard shell and leaves it.  

But I don’t see how the beautiful green shades,
that look like pictures 

if you drive quickly enough through el campo, 
could be anything other than what they are.

I can feel myself shrinking when they talk to me 
in this language I cannot understand.  

I think to myself, these Puerto Ricans from New York 
are always so proud of their home.  

But I have yet to master the technique or mentality 

to say that I am proud of my father’s birthplace, 

or the region my mother’s parents tried  

so desperately to escape. 

Some days, I run into those who look like me.

I smile in hopes that they won’t ask me questions 
that I won’t be able to reply to  

without sighing, shrugging, saying  

I do not understand.  

I wonder if this is ever how it must have felt 

for Jesús Colón or Bernardo Vega  

to watch mouths sputter letters in a language 
not their own.  

They learned.  

I make a secret promise 

that I will teach myself the ways. 

But my ways have been taught;  

my culture created and formed,  

my beliefs anchored to my person.  

Sometimes, this is what the diáspora feels like. 
Sometimes, the secret promises are  

all we have to work with.  

I leave the restaurant with the red-colored doors. 
I say “Gracias” to the woman who looks like me.
She nods and walks away to her next table. 

Sometimes, I wonder if she even cares 

about my inability to speak to her 
in a language that was never mine. 

I sit in the driver’s seat of my car.  

Turn on the radio.  

Fania All-Stars’ “Isla del Encanto” begins to play. 
I drive out into this imaginary sunset. 
Rhythm in my ears, 

even if my dragon for the Lunar New Year 
can’t dance.