I wrote this poem in 2011, shortly after Susana Martinez took office. I intended to sit down and write a very angry piece but what manifested was a great deal of sadness. I’ve performed it several times over the last eight years and am glad it will no longer have the sting it’s had each time I’ve read it.
On her final day in office, I share it as a goodbye, with gratitude that our state survived such an incompetent and vindictive Governor and administration. I have nothing but joy that we have the chance to finally move on.
On her final day in office, I share it as a goodbye, with gratitude that our state survived such an incompetent and vindictive Governor and administration. I have nothing but joy that we have the chance to finally move on.
An Open Letter to Governor Martinez
(c) 2011
Andrea J. Serrano
Dear Susana
I want to understand you
sew you to myself
with the common thread
I thought existed between us.
I want to weave you into the fabric of my being;
I want to admire you.
I want to laugh and reminisce with you.
I want us to drink too much wine,
sing Paloma Negra
and cry together.
What were you like as a little girl?
Did you run, carefree, in fields of flowers?
I imagine you
nestled safely in your father’s arms
as you crossed the El Paso/Juarez border,
maybe to visit family
or just to go shopping.
I see your tiny brown fist
clutching a paleta,
savoring the sweetness of México on your tongue.
When did you stop crossing?
When did you develop a bitter taste in your mouth
for people, who at one time, were just your neighbors?
We are not so different,
you and I.
We are women,
we are ambitious,
smart, powerful
and Brown.
We’ve both advocated for children and women,
victims of abuse -
did you ask them for papers
before you helped them?
Would you now?
What was it like
to trade off your people for power,
your people for position?
Did you even allow yourself
to think about it?
I’m sure you think I am being unfair,
but you started it -
the very second the word “illegal” left your mouth,
you started it.
It would be wonderful
to be proud of you,
to hold you up,
celebrate you.
I wish I could say
“mira, she’s one of us,”
but you feel so far away
so un-like a sister.
Let me say it again -
you feel so far away
so un-like a sister,
you feel foreign.
You are a stranger
I am afraid of you,
of what you will do to hold on
to the power that was handed to you,
gifted
by people who see you as a joke;
a farce.
You are being used to divide and conquer.
Governor in Brown Face,
I’m afraid of what desperation
will make you do next.
I want to understand you,
but I don’t,
I can’t,
I wouldn’t.
Not to my own,
not to anybody
Do you get lonely?
Do you get tired?
Do you wish to seek comfort in your people,
only to find -
we aren’t there.
