Julian Copado
As you Push me Away

We grew up together.
My legs still feel sore from the yesterdays
of chasing ice cream trucks and sunsets.
You were never afraid to play in
my backyard were uninvited guests
always knocked at our doorsteps.
Sometimes more than expected.

You appreciated our streets where
sticks and stones pushed up and against
cinnamon skin and restless bones in
folklorico friction-
ironing out our everyday struggle
of living in your rugged barrios into
a beautiful dance.

We never got to live in the best of you,
but we were always blessed to spread
the rest of what you could offer.
But one changes.

And “change” is a tricky verb that can
alter its unwanted parts into
a better-fitting noun as in:
we noticed the change in our city.

You became famous,
self-portraits turned into postcards,
mirrors disguised as billboards
reflecting your better side,
but never my own.

Don’t you know that birthmarks
are not meant to be covered up?

But you couldn’t stand to see us any longer.
So you covered up by gentrifying our communities;
forcing low-income families into selling
their houses at laughing stock values.

Our generations of hard work have been
replaced by overpriced condos with
views of painted landscapes;
forgetting that moving masterpieces
used to walk these parts.
Once a stubborn dancer,
you now sway with elegance.
You grin with a mannequin smile
with hopes to be more organic,
but ignore your most natural parts.
We are as raw as it gets.
Sometimes this is all that we get.
Instead, you carved us out like
dark spots on a plantain;
disregarding the most nutritious parts.
You’ve become quick to lose
the flavor of your culture.
Yet, as we grew up together,
I dreamed of one day falling
in love with you and building
a house to settle in-
but one changes.
So when you settle down with someone
who doesn’t love you back, remember our
first dance.

Remember these hands that taught how
to step with rhythm in streets with
unbalanced tempos.
Remember my father’s hands as he cultivated
your stainless steel jungle into a grove of
opportunity he would never get to live.
Remember your African heritage.
Do not forget your Mexican backgrounds.
Even the best whiskey will not wash down
a mouthful of stubborn accents.
Your voice will always sing of brass knuckled
jazz and Jalisco style mariachi sonnets.
So before you push me away,
you bipolar disorder of a city,
remember that I have lived
the both of you.