Author: ジェイミー

I criticize America
because I love America.
I am as hopeful as Thomas Paine. Over two hundred years later,
I still see a young country.
But I also see an indestructible country that is destroying itself
with ignorance.

I come from New Yorkers who came from Italians.
I come from New Yorkers, who came from Dominicans, who came from Spaniards.
I am America.

You, who come from Japan and China and Jamaica and Ghana and Iran and Haiti and Mexico, are America.
Arizonans and Texans, we are America, and so are you, do you understand?

Let’s own our history and say that what happened
to the Pikuni, Navajos, Hopi, Pueblos, Apsáalooke, and Seminoles is a travesty
(and they’re the lucky ones),
and they are America.

America is idea. It is not place. It is not culture. It is not looks.
America is happiness, even for the man who loves other men.
It is happiness for drunkards too, and orgyists too. That’s right.
It is not restricted to approved happinesses.
It is not only Super Bowl happiness, or graduation happiness.
It is not only happiness within the speed limit.
It is not only traditional happiness and happiness by accepted standards,
and happiness that would not shock the conscience of the suburbs
and those who farm.

I have known those who have climbed rocks in bare feet and bare-chested screamed at the night and learned nothing from that, America, nothing – except joy.
I have known those who have smoked pot and beyond pot.

I have known those who have scrumped in groups.

I have known those who love, really love, dodecaphonicism, America, they really do. And they hate your commercials.
Stop selling.

Deliver freedom instead. Realize your promise. After all this time,
answer Scott Key’s question with a yes,
and stop locking all those people up – more than any other nation on earth.
Stop the solitary confinement and the lethal injections – what a nightmare.

Stop spying.

Don’t tell me what a good American is. Don’t tell me that all Marines are heroes. Stop it with the heroes. Appreciate your real heroes. Hendrix. Whitman. Ginsberg. Thoreau.

It’s okay to have heroes that were black, or gay, or drug addicts, or pacifists, America. It’s okay. It’s the truth, stop running. I know your heroes, America. Don’t you tell me.

Put Fred Rogers on the five-dollar bill
for I do believe that he would have freed all the slaves.
(Put Philip Glass on the ten.)

Get over the idea of military tribunals. Stop avoiding yourself.
Stop worrying about convictions, and worry about justice.
Remember Yaser Hamdi?
I do.

I know what you did to Chief Osceola, and Sacco and Vanzetti,
and Dred Scott, and Fred Korematsu,
but I still love you because you are a beautiful promise.
Keep yourself, America. Don’t be afraid of Civil Disobedience.
Do not tame every wild thing.
Let the wolverine return to Michigan. The Everglades, America.
America, don’t you feel bad about the buffalo?

So this is you. East to West you conquered and civilized. Bridges span rivers.
The Eisenhower Interstate system. Marvelous. The Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate,
the Chicago River flows backwards. Wonderful accomplishments. Magnificent.

Are we free to be happy yet?

It’s something, isn’t it? That view.
That land that doesn’t care who your father is –
that doesn’t have water for those who don’t know how to find it,
and even then, only for the lucky.
That freedom. You see it? It’s something, isn’t it?

You ever think of the blood on that land? The Apaches. The whites.
You ever think of Geronimo’s unsleeping rifle and his quick knife?
This brutal land was in brutal contention, don’t you know that?
Jesus man, trees with heads stuck on, black tongues dangling.
Dark holes where eyes were before the birds got ‘em. Ha.

You know what it was back then? Liberty. Terrible liberty.
Pure nature, like a scouring wind blowing down all things weak.
Strong men coming down the road, and not always good men.
Scared fathers telling women and kids to hide. Fighting to hold
steady the barrel and the voice. Stop there, mister. What do you want?

Scary times, boy. Dangerous times; no question.
But think about how alive they must have felt,
to be so close to death all the time.
To live in daily fear of the bite of the blade
on your scalp. The sawing and screaming.

But, that’s all gone. America now is beautiful comfort.
A nice table in the shade. Cold beer. Ha.
Tame America. Maybe too tame.
There’s no room for horses in this New America.
What do you think about that?

We once had space you could thrust your life into.
Wildness you could smell.
A million-hoof roll you could feel in your neck, boy.
But we’ve replaced all that with air conditioning,
haven’t we.

These days, we watch the Cowboys and Redskins
on the flatscreen. Talk of your daddy’s business
while I suck on ice. Everything we need.
But freedom maybe.
Ha.