Prose poetry
America, I Still Love You
America, for me, Portuguese, first a continent, unique, without divisions of north or south, so we learned in Portugal. Secondly, America, the dream, the concept, the famous “city upon the hill,” the desired paradise on earth with abundance, peace, and prosperity for all and where the search for happiness could be the pillars of any human dream.
America the eternal Eden where several unwanted apples turned that land into a living hell.
Thirdly, the country, the people who make it up, a mirror of what could be all human diversity, but where the ideology of a minority made itself want to encompass all. The distorted history, the truths of each one, the different perspectives of seeing the same reality.
Throughout my childhood, I looked at all these concepts of America. In my juvenile ignorance, I looked beyond the ocean, knowing that being in Portugal, deep in the distant horizon, I would find a whole people I looked at with admiration. Life charged me to change my lens, to talk about “lost causes,” racial segregation, civil wars, and the real reason for them, white-hooded men on their horses killing people.
Life made me see the beautiful music of Nina Simone, singing with sad sounds and words that I still didn’t know that the strange fruits on the trees were the innocent blood of her people; the ruining of entire lives and generations to come, contrasting with the eyes of evil which looked at their deaths like a spectacle, a party, a show.
America, America. America of the Scarlet letter, of the Salem’s “witches,” hanged by an unchristian Christendom, and the women whose bodies and lives continue to be commanded by men oblivious to their pain. America, how much greater could you be!
Were you not the America that out of pain made the Blues, the Jazz, that gave us the greatest of dreamers that gathering crowds dared to speak, to assemble beautiful English words, to awaken the hope in the hearts of their children, and unite them as brothers at the same table!
Were you not the America who gave us revolutionaries whose minds, armed with intelligence and a voice, taught their people to love themselves, fight for freedom, and not beg for it. For pearls that dare to sit, and with that break up all the rules made out by absurdity. To value themselves, who they were, are, and will continue to be, and make their voices and bodies matter!
Were you not the America that brilliant minds adopted as their home; Minds that stood up and made you stand up; Minds that, through gestures on the big screen, raised the perspective of a little tramp to the highest virtues of all, that of human kindness, that of the beauty of simplicity, that of empathy.
Were you not the America of enchanted landscapes, national parks, and preserving hearts that showed us that there is another door, another alternative to a new way of life between two pine trees.
Beautiful America of a river that is your map, that covers you completely, that gives you prosperity and makes you climb that hill you so longed for. A river that is larger than life, that gives life and kills. Your beautiful Natura, America! Your beautiful nature described so beautifully, with a splendid silent sun in the middle of quiet woods, where we can see fields of clover, timothy, corn, and orchids.
Were you not the America that knows how to have fun, young and juvenile, smiling even in adversity;
Were you not the America of exuberant dancing, rock, and roll, music full of sorrow in the voice, the America where husky voices, smelling of teenage perfumes, or crying like babies, have become immortal. The America where young people with flowers on their heads heading westward inspired the world again.
Beautiful America, you were, and you could be if only you could be the America that rises together as one and only. You have done that not long ago. You rose together as brothers after the most terrible tragedies when the world stopped and, in solidarity, suffered with you.
But America, you are forgetting who you are! Where has your identity stopped? They have shrunk you, taken you away, made you a prisoner. They killed your most beautiful children. They took the lady with flame in hand into an inhospitable territory and with her the belief of how more beautiful you could be.
They didn’t break you in two! They shattered down you into pieces, in hate, in ignorance.
I feel you alone. Wandering down the streets with amnesia, angry, disgusted. With sadness in your heart by the daily mourning for the blood that runs in your streets. For the lives of children are interrupted. For old fights that take centuries to be won. For your children who have become enemies of each other, divided into a game that doesn’t even belong to them anymore. Representative? You are being deceived.
There I found, in the streets of Philadephia or somewhere else, in pain and sorrow for the greed, stupidity, and human violence that has blinded your eyes.
Wake up America! for where there is life, there is hope; for where the sun still rises up at dawn, silent or not, it still does and wants to smile at you.
Let it come in and light you up again so you can bring your torch and guide us all.
Araci, July 2022,
Saddened by the state of America.
Hello, I’m Araci, a female writer from Portugal navigating her thirties. If you have enjoyed this article, maybe you would like to buy me a coffee here https://ko-fi.com/joanaaraci
I write on Medium about politics, pop culture, society, feminism, and womanhood. I hope you’ve enjoyed this article and that it helped you out!
You can also find more about me here:
Are you considering joining Medium for only 5$ a month? If so, consider doing it through my referral link:
Your membership fee directly supports me, Araci Almeida, and other writers you read. This way, you are helping me out while you’ll also get full access to every story on Medium.
Thank you for reading me.