By: Stephanie Ginese, From La Respuesta Media
I visited Puerto Rico for the first time, the year before the storm. The minute I landed, I knew I was about to discover a missing piece of my soul.
My mother is from Santurce. She came to the mainland when she was just seven-years-old. My family, along with many other Puerto Rican families, made a strong community in Lorain, Ohio. The spirit of Puerto Rico was always present in our small, Midwest city. I grew up only hearing family stories about La Isla and dreaming about one day jumping off the cliffs in Quebradillas just like mi abuelo.
Finally, just a week off my 30th birthday, I was there. Feeling the sun invade every pore of my body. Standing where my ancestors had stood. I was so overcome with joy, I cried upon our first introduction. I was home. This was the most beautiful piece of land on our planet. Every inch of her was alive. I spent each moment of my days there in awe of her radiance. I felt at home in the seeming erasure of time and ease of spirit. I got lost in the vastness of the sky and the cielo blue of the ocean. I had been let into the gates of Paradise. Even in the abandonment that snaked through the city, I saw potential. I saw a sustainable Puerto Rico. Dripping with the gold they stole from us all those centuries ago. I remember the day before my departure, digging my hands into the red earth of Mama Yunque, and whispering to the sweet, wet air. “I will be home soon.”
Now, a few months since the storm, with uncertain numbers of those that were taken in the dark and those still left in the dark. When my fear of Boriken’s future tries to rise and give way to hopelessness. I remember the immortal resilience of my people and our land.
I wrote this poem in the aftermath. As a reminder of the words whispered into the thickness of the rainforest and as a call. To nine million Boricuas. Vamos a nuestra madre!
“exodus”
this is a story about exodus
about a land grab
about men
with skin foreign to the sun
and pockets deeper than el carib
the men that caused the blackout
tried to evacuate la isla
their empty eyes
fixated on the prize
the real estate
the barren fields
ripe for the impregnating
with their genetically modified seed
fruitless seed
rows and rows
boxing in buildings
beige and cold
gone will be the lush colores
of the sun drenched mother
then the coquis will lose their song
the island will be silent
for the first time
these men won’t notice
or care
they don’t understand
color or music
only money and destruction
thin smiles creeping in as they try
to erase our culture
our history
we could stop them you know
if we can remember
the caciques in our trees
the gold in our veins
could rebuild our beloved
but first
we must find our way
back.
Stephanie Ginese is a mother, activist, bruja, poet, and proud Boricua based in Cleveland, OH. You can follow her on Instagram at @labrujarita
