My Choice

There were many pieces I had to choose from when selecting my writers choice, all of which I am proud of. In the end I decided to use a discussion board piece, regarding the poetic language and metaphors used in a poem. That poem was called Ending Poem written by mother and daughter Rosario Morales and Aurora Levins Morales. I love reading all types of poetry, so I was excited about this assignment. Although I love it, I’m not always the best at interpreting it line for line. My favorite part if my interpretation is the lines, “The roots of the tree represent the oldest, strongest parts of their ancestry and origins where as the leaves are represented by the newer generations, still connected but making their own paths. The image of a tree is so strong and wise in itself, it’s the image we want others to see in our own families.” I feel that I had a good understanding of the message the authors were trying to portray. Also that I was successful in explaining my thoughts to my classmates. I’ve included the poem below, as it was very well written, and one that I thoroughly enjoyed.

Ending Poem
By Rosario Morales and Aurora Levins Morales

I am what I am.
A child of the Americas.
A light-skinned mestiza of the Caribbean.
A child of many diaspora, born into this continent at a crossroads.
I am Puerto Rican. I am U.S. American.
I am New York Manhattan and the Bronx.
A mountain-born, country-bred, homegrown jibara child,
up from the shtetl, California Puerto Rican Jew
A product of the New York ghettos I have never known.
I am an immigrant
and the daughter and granddaughter of many immigrants.
We didn’t know our forbears’ names with a certainty.
They aren’t written anywhere.
First names only or mija, negra, ne, honey, sugar, dear

I come from the dirt where the cane was grown.
My people didn’t go to dinner parties. They weren’t invited.
I am caribeña, island grown.
Spanish is in my flesh, ripples from my tongue, lodges in my hips,
the language of garlic and mangoes.
Boricua. As Boricuas come from the isle of Manhattan.
I am of latinoamerica, rooted in the history of my continent.
I speak from that body. Just brown and pink and full of drums inside.

I am not African.
Africa waters the roots of my tree, but I cannot return.

I am not Taìna.
I am a late leaf of that ancient tree,
and my roots reach into the soil of two Americas.
Taìno is in me, but there is no way back.

I am not European, though I have dreamt of those cities.
Each plate is different.
wood, clay, papier machè, metals basketry, a leaf, a coconut shell.
Europe lives in me but I have no home there.

The table has a cloth woven by one, dyed by another,
embroidered by another still.
I am a child of many mothers.
They have kept it all going.
All the civilizations erected on their backs.
All the dinner parties given with their labor.

We are new.
They gave us life, kept us going,
brought us to where we are.
Born at a crossroads.
Come, lay that dishcloth down. Eat, dear, eat.

History made us.
We will not eat ourselves up inside anymore.

And we are whole.