by Sandra María Esteves
for España
España, golden father of my ancestors,
who captured my mother as slave, stripped her naked,
plowed treasures from her shores.
To you, who claims hills most green, wine most sweet,
Spanish most precise, devotion most fervent.
Whose structured guitar the most elegant
and flamenco the most graceful.
To you, initiate
whose model blessed this western land
where Columbus recovered his wealthy Caribbean key
opening door to Española—Santo Domingo,
giving birth to the history of a million shames,
where the names of kings, imamus, caciques and warlords
were secrets disguised, abolished,
dissolved into myriads of bloodlines,
claiming invisible records, unwritten,
stolen from the luscious continents.
To you, father of my father,
whose table graced our tobacco fields,
whose whip increased the abundance of our sweet cane,
grinding sweat from roots to water your rose garden of thorns.
Whose court inspired our danzón, corridor, and gracious bomba,
giving rise to a new African drumbeat—the flight of the ball
and chain,
creating the formulation of new words, esclavo, cimarrón,
slave, revel.
To you, who hides in mountains of golden courtly seals
inside handwrought manuscripts from the age of Ferdinand.
On whose gilded pages are inscribed
the names of my great grandmothers?
Inside what illustrations are located
the landmark homes of my great grandfathers?
On the maps of which islands
rest their simple graves where I may pay hommage to my
ancestors?
In whose kingly court
did my great grand-aunt wet nurse the master’s brats?
Perhaps a future uncle, or slightly remembered landowner.
And which of my grand cousins were teachers?
Masters of their craft, respected noblemen, and women of
wisdom?
In whose library will I find their books? Tales of their lives?
On which ships did my captured relatives sail?
At which ports did their feet first land?
To which continents were relatives dispersed?
To Brazil, Venezuela, Argentina, Bolivia,
Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Ecuador,
Peru, the Dominican Republic, Uruguay, Jamaica,
Haiti, the Caribbean Antilles, the Mexican Coast, Panamá,
Yucatan, the thirteen colonies, New Orleans, Virginia,
South Carolina, Mississippi, Alabama, Nueva York?
To you, singing canticles of Spanish kings of Barcelona,
where Maximilian danced his Roman feast of world con-
quest,
forming the anguished tears of Goya,
forging the broken cubes of Picasso,
giving substance to the cries of García Lorca.
In all your illustrious bounty hides a legacy denied.
Yet, not one line of testimony to this truth of shame,
nor one admission of guilt, nor humble apology,
nor effort to replace what was defiled, dismembered.
To you, España, prize of Europe,
host to the colonized West,
solicitor of rich ports,
seducer of saintly Indians,
golden father of my ancestors, who captured my mother as
slave,
stripped her naked, plowed treasures from her shores.
I want to know your future.
What new paintings will be created on whose walls?
Whose names will emerge in which new brilliant journals?
What melodies will evolve from our mixings?
In whose gardens will we water our visions?
I want to know
who will decide our fate?
You, or I, or WE together?
Will I be free to discover my own path?
Uncover a new journey no one else has known?
Designing my life spaces in my own natural colors,
tropical parades of evergreens,
caribbean blue seas, sand surfaces,
and mountain-rain-banana-leaf horizons.
I want to know.
Who is going to tell me?
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