What Does Your Name Mean??

For Wo Chan

it means you can't change it

just because you can't pronounce it.

it means just because you can't spell it,

that you can't throw in extra letters

or take others away.

it means you can't shorten it

because you think it's too long

or that you can "americanize" it.

it means when you accidentally
and repeatedly fuck it up,

you’re actually doing it on purpose.

it means when some people read it

or hear it’s soft vowels and rolling r’s,

that they will instantly hate me.

it means people will assume

that i speak Spanish.

it means people think they have the right

to interrogate me about

where i'm from,

where i'm REALLY from,

when my family came here.

it means people think i'm holding

or that i know where they can get some.

it means if i have the day off from work,

people think i'm unemployed.

it means when i use my credit card,

i have to show a “valid” ID.

it means when i do show my ID,

store managers look closely at it

to see if it's real.

it means when a friend says it,

tension leaves my body.

it means I am safe

and that good things

are about to happen.

when a loved one says it

it assures I’ll respond with my heart.

it means when i see it published

all the pushing back against

the bullshit that surrounded it

was worth it.

it means when people with similar names

see it in an anthology next to other

beautiful harmonious names,

that they can smile knowing,

but not fully knowing, the journey

it took to get them on the page.

it means we can love own names

and forgive ourselves

for all the times

we hated them. 

'Tending Hands' on Public Radio International

Me and my dad around 1970

Here is an expanded version of my farmworker post, 'Tender Hands' featured on my other blog, The Last Year

'When I was 10 years old, I began working regularly with my family as a migrant farmworker. I'd done it previously, but only on Saturdays, to help them catch up when tornado warnings ended work early or when the patches of weeds were particularly thick. The summer of my fourth grade year, it became my full-time job.'

Read the entire essay at Public Radio International. 

I’m thankful to PRI’s Anglilee Shah who read my original post and reached out to me to feature it on PRI.

For Alexia on Her 27th Birthday

I’m going to tell you a secret,

my darling girl, about how

we became a family.

Even before you were born

you changed us.

Your arrival renewed

our damaged spirits.

Nurturing our new love

required selflessness.

When we stumbled,

your faith in us set our footing.

We found strength in vulnerability.

We found wealth in giving.

We found power in peace.

Soon this collection of individuals

found ourselves in a family.

So the secret, my sweet one,

of how we came to be

is one word,

you.

#TheLastYear

Today I'm 46 years old. My mom died when she was 47. This is the beginning of #TheLastYear. pic.twitter.com/F94AxEGlFY
— Miguel M. Morales (@TrustMiguel) December 28, 2013

Yesterday after a rough visit, I decided to start a new writing project called The Last Year.

Sun Damaged

Working in the Texas soybean fields as a kid

under a blazing and insolent summer sun

that tempted him with mirages of

cool rippling lakes along the horizon,

he dreamed of a future working

in an chilled, air-conditioned office.

He’d sit in a cushioned chair

and wear a dark, clean suit, and a fresh thin tie

instead of muddy, oversized boots

and sweaty bandannas.

He’d have shiny black dress shoes with black laces

and folded white handkerchiefs.

He’d wear a sleek watch and a thin belt

not a thick one showing a man riding a bull on its buckle.

He’d go to lunch whenever he wanted

instead of having to eat when the sun was at its highest

and when they were closest to the car

that had everyone’s lunch

packed into a foam cooler in its trunk.

He’d walk with a purpose

and smile at people.

He’d talk to strangers

and they would welcome it.

He wouldn’t constantly scan the toiling soil

looking for thorned weeds to scissor.

He wouldn’t talk quietly to himself in order to pass the time.

He wouldn’t wonder what everyone else in the world was doing

at that exact moment.

He wouldn’t be ashamed to tell his friends

what he did over the summer

because he’d have gone on vacation

like everyone else

and not worked the fields

dreaming of a time when

when he would escape

the assiduous sun.

this photo of you | Mother's Day

Delia R. Morales

Strange how in this digital existence

when everyone uploads, tags, and shares

photos instantaneously,

I have so few pictures of you.

The scanned photos I do have

show you as a young girl

in grey tones that hint

at the depth of your spirit

and playfulness.

Other photos show an older you

more like the mom I remember

when the responsibility of being

a wife and mother

settled into your soul.

Yet this photo has always intrigued me.

Despite the vibrant colors and vibrant times,

the photo fails to match yours.

You’re wearing a genuine smile of confidence

that I rarely saw except those times

when you were your own woman.

There was the time when you worked

at the community center

and dad worked out of town,

you’d take my sisters and me to dinner

on Fridays when you got paid.

Sitting in that small family diner,

converted from an old Dairy Queen,

eating hamburgers and fries

was the best part of the week

At the time I savored our weekly detour

simply because we ate out and ordered cokes.

Now I understand that our excitement

came from your new found sense of self.

For us kids, that was the real treat.

As much as I love you for being my mom,

I wish I had known more about you

at this time in your life,

and I wish that you had, too.

vernal | National Poetry Month

his body knows it’s too hot for 

the dense kinks of his Puerto Rican hair

that comes from his mother’s side.

his body knows it’s too hot for

the curly twists of his Mexicano locks

that comes from his father’s side.

his indigenous spirit knows

it’s time for cleansing,

time to acquit the past,

time for renewal.

with a snap of the shaver,

his hair spills and tumbles

onto his shoulders

and then to the floor

like the feathered mane

of Quetzalcohuātl.

with the repose of Yúcahu

his hands trace his scalp

for the first time since

he last performed

this sacred ritual.

his brown gods

have returned in the

in the tribal rhythms of his heart,

in the serenity of his breath,

in the artistry of his craft.

gently closing his eyes,

he welcomes them back

with an appreciative smile.

©Miguel M. Morales

patterns | National Poetry Month

Usually she’d eye my sister,

turning her slowly,

estimating measurements,

to create a pattern in her mind.

Ordinarily mom cut fabric freehanded

sometimes from a pattern of newspaper.

I’d laugh at seeing one of my sisters

pinned with the Sunday funnies.

If needed, mom examined an old dress

following the cut, contemplating the facing.

But when faced with unseemly seams,

she’d load us into the car and head to TG&Y.

In the stale, air-conditioned sewing department

she’d sit under humming florescent lights

on one of the metal stools with cushions

crafted by the store’s sewing class.

Rows of wooden tables displayed

Butterick, Simplicity, and McCall’s catalogues.

There in that retail library, she’d study

new techniques and memorize patterns.

With new buttons and zippers and threads,

she’d attentively work into the evening

feeding the sewing machine fabric

guiding and twisting with a steady hand.

In addition to constructing

shorts and pants,

fashioning shirts and skirts,

designing tops and blouses,

(I remember a little red leisure suit – it was the 70s),

there were the gowns:

      homecoming,

            party

     wedding,

christening.

Each stitch,

      a prayer,

delicate

and

      enduring.

hermana del cielo | National Poetry Month

Before cloaking herself in flesh

she made an eternal covenant

with the being

who was to become my mother

Their sacred bond

predates the universe.

Untested by the physical and the temporal,

they each chose flawed vessels,

perhaps purposely.

The being who was my mother,

struggled to prepare for the arrival

of my sisters and me,

with whom she also shared eternal covenants.

Sometimes she failed.

Sometimes she lost herself.

Sometimes unconditional love

had too many conditions.

In my mother’s despair,

that’s when she arrived,

a frail blue baby,

from the heavens.

We named her Celestina,

though she remained mortal

for only a few hours.

She came to my mother

to touch her soul and

to share a moment of the divine.

Before cloaking herself in flesh

she made an eternal covenant

with the being

who was to become my mother

Their sacred bond

will outlast the universe.

liar | National Poetry Month

No one believed me

when I tried to explain

that I missed school for a week

because my mom wouldn’t let us go.

No one believed me

when I tried to explain

that she couldn’t sign our report cards

because she tore them up.

How could I explain that sometimes

there was no food in the house?

How could I explain that sometimes

she stayed in her housecoat all week?

How could I explain that sometimes

she sat in the living room late at night crying?

Instead of trying to explain

that we weren’t allowed to answer

the door or the phone, I lied.

I told the lies that were expected

convinced I was protecting my mother,

my family, and myself.

Instead, my lies absolved those

who did not want to hear,

or bear the responsibility

of acting upon,

the truth.

thank the work of our hands | National Poetry Month

“Thank the work of our hands …”

            -Richard Blanco, One Today

                           

I never thanked the work

of my mother’s hands

that sewed clothes for my sisters and me

that made comida out of a sparse pantry

that prayed and hand-crafted rosaries,

hands that cleaned other people’s houses

and other people’s children.

I never thanked the work 

of my sisters’ hands

that dutifully cared for me

when my mother could not

and that helped me with my homework.

Often it was their young overworked hands

that scraped together the rent.

To this day, it is their hands

that mean most to me.

I never thanked the work 

of my father’s hands

that sliced the flesh from fresh carcasses

in a chilled meat packing plant,

hands that helped me move,

that changed my oil.

Tired hands that say, “I love you”

when his words cannot.

I never thanked the work 

of my Tia Noche’s hands

that showed me how to work efficiently

in my first job out of high school

at the explosives factory.

Her hands invited me to work puzzles

spread out on the dining room table,

the one only used for special occasions.

I never thanked the work 

of my friends’ hands

that offer welcoming handshakes

enthusiastic support,

and comforting hugs.

Their talented hands show me

what is possible.

I never thanked the work of the hands 

of the men I loved

skilled hands that tilled soil, picked fruit,

danced across keyboards,

and augmented machinery.

Hands that caressed my face

and whose gentle fingers

traced my lips.

Hands that, in public and in private,

searched for and enfolded mine.

All these loving, working hands

that wipe countertops,

chalkboards, and windshields,

as well as sweaty brows

and mournful tears,

reach for me when I am lost.

They proudly pat my back

or gently take my arm.

No, I have never thanked the work

of these many hands.

Nor I have ever thanked the work 

of my own hands

that clenched a garden hoe 

as I walked uneven fields,

hands that blistered, cracked,

and bled under an assiduous sun.

These hands labor so my soul can search

and my mind can reflect on and thank

the work of our hands.

THE CAMPUS LEDGER: Mother's Day

This article was originally published in The Campus Ledger May 8, 2003

I've Been Thinking About ... Mom

I still can't get over the impulse to call my mom when something good happens. Maybe I never will.

Miguel M. Morales
Managing Editor

It’s been 10 years since she died.

Breast cancer. She was 47.

I always want to talk to her, especially during this time of year -- Mother's Day.

I want to tell her about my classes, my job, and my friends.

I want her to know I am working hard to be a good person and that I love her and miss her.

With finals approaching, it's easy for students to forget about Mother's Day.

But those like me never do -- we remember and watch.

We watch those with mothers and envy them, even the ones with bad relationships. At least their mothers are still alive and there is always the chance to heal the relationship.

The world changes when a parent dies.

Our one pure source of unconditional love is gone.

It’s a love we took for granted. It urged our first step, helped us find our talents, and even now understands our struggle for education and to become more than what we are.

As we grow up, move out, and make our place in the world, we struggle to create a new role for ourselves that of an adult.

Sometimes, in order to succeed in the struggle we must break the family ties that bind by leaving. For some simply leaving the family home will do, while for others, it means leaving their community entirely.

However, independence does not mean isolation.

Using growing up as an excuse to escape our family is as childish as wanting to eat cookies for dinner.

Being an adult often means accepting our parents committed the unforgivable sin of being human and made mistakes raising us.

Learn from those mistakes together.

Parents, sit down and talk one-on-one with each of your children.

Let us ask the hard questions.

Take the time out from assigned roles to share feelings and experiences in a non-confrontational manner.

Don’t ignore this opportunity for understanding and growth.

Believe me, you may never get another chance.

At this time in our lives, we can easily forget about mothers, fathers, and those who raised us.

I struggle to recall the sound of my mom's voice with each passing year, but I will always remember dancing with her in the kitchen, as she cooked dinner.

We may have been related by birth but we became a family by choice.

Now, pick up the phone and call your mother.