Mexico, Part 2: “National Emergency,” for Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez

When I began the Mexico series last summer shortly after my trip to the U.S.-Mexico border, I thought that the words would just pour out. I had become obsessed with the region and the daily injustices occurring there, and expected that I would be able to translate my rage and sorrow into words with complete ease. But after months of laborious writing and rewriting, I was proven mute, or at the very least, stuck. I was unable to articulate my thoughts and feelings in a way that left me satisfied, in a way that felt like I was giving anything—or anyone—justice. Despite this seeming silence from my pen, one story clamored loudly in my mind, subconscious and persistent. The story of Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez’s death is not an anomaly, and the outcome of the trial against U.S. Border Patrol Agent Lonnie Swartz is not uncommon, either. Below is “National Emergency,” written in response to Jose’s death and the recent claims by our president on the state of our southern border.

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National Emergency

for Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez

 

I am trying to mourn you

in a way that makes sense—

like maybe if you and I had

touched souls in a

whispered introduction

of a shoulder-brush perdón.

 

I hear your laugh

in my little brother’s throat,

first, heavy with adolescence

only to taper off into a youthful giggle,

until finally, gone with the night air

as Lonnie cried cowardice

and you fell to the ground.

 

Did it hurt after the first bullet,

or were you preoccupied by

trying to remember

how to count in English?

(fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…)

What is the Spanish word for unnecessary?

 

I wish I could tell you they were

making more room for your

light to spill and spread,

instead, enacting a dull-dirt crucifixion—

This is not your sin to die for.

 

I’ll turn blue in the face till I look like you,

a deep navy for your hair and lips,

a lighter shade for your smiling eyes,

a shrine for all the savior in you.

This is the only way I’ve ever known you,

looking outwards at the slits that kill,

a doubtless brother to the American sky.

 

There are many ways to steal a childhood.

This is what I mean when I say

“national emergency.”

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Feature Image: Courtesy of slate.com