Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin at the caravan. Also joining are Chamberlin's daughter and granddaughter.
They Took My Son to Vietnam
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin
I dedicate this poem to our forgotten papalotl Chicano warrior butterflies, slain at US foreign lands of war, at the borderlands, and in the streets of Aztlan.
In the year one thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight
the president took my son Richi to Vietnam.
He told me, “Mamá, it’s my responsibility.
Uncle Sam calls me.”
I don’t care about that responsibility
or about that war of Uncle Sam.
I only care about my son. Over there, he died
in a jungle. They killed my Richi and I cry.
The Vietnamese mothers cry too.
Last year during Christmas time
the policia sent my second son
Rodolfito to prison. He was one of
the militant leaders from here in the
barrio who fought against drugs.
Over there, he died in a fight
in prison and I weep.
When they beat my son to death,
they beat me up too. My heart cries
from so many beatings of life.
We mothers of the barrio
cry every day for our children.
Lucita, my nine-year-old little girl was run
over by a Policia as she walked on the
crosswalk in front of the school. The chota
chased after a teenager and drove over Mija.
He didn’t even stop. She was my heart.
With her I lost hope and all my desire to live.
Now I’m pregnant with my fourth child.
They tell me my responsibility as a woman,
as a mother is to have this child. But I know
that my baby’s destiny is to die in the street,
in prison, or in a foreign land.
His darling eyes will never see me.
Never will see this world, so cruel.
He will never suffer again.
(read zoom Chic Morat mtg 8-15-20 and on August 27, 2020 zoom Peña)
The Sea Gull
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin
The seagull knows no borders.
It flies on crisp ocean currents from
Oceanside to Tijuana.
No checkpoints or toll roads, no Green
Cards or citizenship papers required.
The winged creature roams freely
over Camp Pendleton
then squalls its call to Mexican youth
at the other side of the border.
It’s an omen.
Joel, a Mexican young man
is signed up by a
U.S. marine recruiter.
A bonus for each recruit.
Sign on the dotted line.
The seagull pays no fare.
But the marine pays
a penalty for leaving home.
The recruit was top of the class,
superior in math and science.
Head of the bugle corps, awarded
the Netzahualcoyotl Award for Poetry.
A bright future for Tijuana’s hero.
Promises of U.S. citizenship,
world travel, a college education.
Promises broken by a letter from Tió Sam.
Joel returns home in a wooden box,
like a downed seagull, his head tucked
under a broken wing.
No reward for services rendered.
The Green Card Marine,
his soul takes flight
over the oceans
into the broken night.
Gun Cantos
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin
I
Los Angeles public schools.
Students tracked from grade one.
Military recruiters
sign them up
pluck them from cradles
and lay them in graves.
II
Sons play with guns,
and grow to maim and kill
other mother’s sons.
III
We are the unemployed,
the fodder of the military.
We are corporate slaves.
IV
My son told me.
“Ma, a man
needs to work.”
4 comments:
I love it.
I am so happy you love the poems, utube by my granddaughter, and posters against war and for paz in the world.
Wonderful poetry, sentiments are so heartfelt. So sorry for your loss and unfortunately, we are still experiencing these injustices. We need peace and unity here in the U.S. and throughout the world ♡
Vibi, these poems are so powerful because they're so full of heart and soul AND TRUTH! Your voice is vital, especially in these hard times of racism, GOP corruption, and plague. Continue speaking truth, my friend. God bless you and your loved ones.
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