Just the thought of going back home feels like a blessing.
It’s November 15th and not many Dominican-Americans are in the country.
I can count them with my fingers.
They are all back in New York from their vacations.
It’s November 15th and there is a constant cry from the local people.
A cry that wishes they were at the land of opportunity.
That they would be able to live in a 1st world country. Everywhere it’s heard.
Its heard in the silence.
The expression on their faces.
Its heard in your sleep.
The men with the long beard walking down the street.
That died a long time ago, yet tomorrow will say hi as you walk down the alley.
A cry that can fill more cups then the local water supply.
A cry that creates contrast with the dirty water that they will drink tonight,
in the shadow of the candles.
Candles lit to glow the lonely power-less night.
But in New York' the ones who fly have flipped the switch.
Yet with wings, the cries of the local people is a
laughing matter for Dominican-Americans.
Someone’s tears dried in our memory.
Our own people, now forgotten in our imaginary glory.
Now you mention with a giggle "the folks back home".
Their painless than an after-thought, Irrelevant in our own tears.
Their cry for answers in this scary world, irrelevant in our smiles.
A smile at the expense of others.
It hurts in your head; the sad state of the local people.
It’s pain and confusion when you look back at the stories from your childhood and learn about the damage, and realize you started it.
Realization now, nothing but surprises.
As long as I can remember I always told my mom, I didn't like surprises.
Not even good ones.
And now surprises are plenty. Even though the world is written in books.
The pages are falling and the rivers are drying.
Its pain and confusion to think that our neighbor Haiti also has a constant cry.
Their cry can be solved if they migrate to the more “advanced” Dominican Republic.
Surprises soon familiar. I close my eyes.
Here in the Dominican Republic, I live in a decent neighborhood, my dad drives a decent car, we eat at nice places but there’s always a beggar in the street who says it’s more.
Who says I'm living a dream.