Not My Presidente

Summary

The content reflects the disenfranchisement of Puerto Ricans, who, despite being U.S. citizens and military service members, are unable to vote in U.S. presidential elections.

Abstract

The poem "Not My Presidente" poignantly captures the silent protest of Puerto Rican voices, which remain unheard despite their active participation in U.S. military conflicts and their citizenship status. It highlights the irony of being expected to defend a democracy that denies them the fundamental right to vote for the nation's leader. The piece underscores the painful paradox of being tied to the ideals of American liberty while being excluded from the electoral process that symbolizes it. The author uses vivid imagery to convey the frustration and alienation felt by Puerto Ricans who are reminded of their second-class citizenship each time they are asked if they voted in the U.S. presidential elections.

Opinions

The author suggests that the expectation for Puerto Ricans to participate in U.S. elections is a form of silent oppression, as they are denied the full exercise of their citizenship rights.
There is a sense of irony and criticism towards the U.S. for promoting the sanctity of voting while systematically excluding Puerto Rican citizens from the process.
The poem conveys a deep-seated frustration with the U.S. political system, which is perceived as hypocritical for preaching democracy while denying it to Puerto Ricans.
The author implies that the contributions of Puerto Rican soldiers and veterans to U.S. military efforts are not adequately recognized or rewarded with equal rights.
The repeated questioning about voting is seen as a reminder of the exclusion and disregard for the political agency of Puerto Ricans.

Not My Presidente

It is not for want of voice that I stay silent, my tongue tied to keep it from licking your luscious (illusory) liberty, of caressing the creaseless crinoline of choice in your dancing democracy whose doors are locked.

“Did you vote?” An innocent (ignorant) question. The hands of every citizen, you said, must touch the walls of Washington. It is a sacred right and duty, more sanctified and sanctimonious than recycling the trash or bearing arms. Your vote is your voice.

Our voices that sing, shout, cry, mumble, and plead are not heard, just herded into oblivion.

We cast our ballots in the wet sand: soldiers, veterans of a dozen dirty wars, citizens of the U. S. of A, fathers, mothers of children.

“Did you vote?” We can’t vote — not for your president who can send us to die to defend your right to vote.