[music: “Drume Negrita” by Ry Cooder and Manuel Galbán]
Tippett:I’m Krista Tippett, and this is On Being. Today, with Richard Blanco, the Cuban American civil engineer turned poet. We’re exploring themes of home and belonging — physical and emotional, personal and communal — as Richard Blanco takes them up in his book, How to Love a Country. We spoke in the outdoor amphitheater of the Chautauqua Institution.
Tippett:I said to you before we came out here, if you feel called to read anything from any of those books, you may do that. But I’m going to propose — I pulled some out that — it’s interesting. You use the word “immigrant.” That’s the way you describe your family story, I think, most often, or “exile,” a bit. I had a conversation last year about Hannah Arendt, [Editor’s note: Krista is referring to her interview with Lyndsey Stonebridge, which took place in 2017.] who wrote a lot about exile. And the conversation I was having with this scholar of Hannah Arendt, who works with refugees now, is what happens to our imagination about these humans when we use the word “immigrant” or “refugee” or, what I’m so aware of now, is what the word “migrant” has done. I think that language makes an abstraction of people and creates an ability for us to separate. Anyway, this is just on my mind. And then you wrote this poem called “Complaint of El Río Grande,” which is, again, looking at this entire drama from a whole different angle, which is this piece of the natural world that is crossed and that, in that moment, makes of people … whatever that thing is.
Blanco:Something transforms.
Tippett:Want to read that one?
Blanco:Sure, I’d love to.
Tippett:Page nine.
Blanco:Given me a lot to think about there, but … [laughs] but we’ll read it first, like you said. So I’ve been hearing about the Mexican-U.S. border since I was a kid. And I think we all, in some ways, are — just sort of had it with this issue, in the context of, you mean to tell me that we can’t, not just as countries, as the Western hemisphere, come to some kind of fair, amicable, humane — to this problem that is not — we’re making it a problem.
And it gets abstracted, and it gets politicized, overly politicized, and I thought, how can I do this, is, let the river speak. And let the river — so this is a persona poem in the voice of the river — to let all humanity have it; [laughs] have the river pointing a finger at us, so to speak.
“I was meant for all things to meet:
to make the clouds pause in the mirror
of my waters, to be home to fallen rain
that finds its way to me, to turn eons
of loveless rock into lovesick pebbles
and carry them as humble gifts back
to the sea which brings life back to me.
I felt the sun flare, praised each star
flocked about the moon long before
you did. I’ve breathed air you’ll never
breathe, listened to songbirds before
you could speak their names, before
you dug your oars in me, before you
created the gods that created you.
Then countries—your invention—maps
jigsawing the world into colored shapes
caged in bold lines to say: you’re here,
not there, you’re this, not that, to say:
yellow isn’t red, red isn’t black, black is
not white, to say: mine, not ours, to say
war, and believe life’s worth is relative.
You named me big river, drew me—blue,
thick to divide, to say: spic and Yankee,
to say: wetback and gringo. You split me
in two—half of me us, the rest them. But
I wasn’t meant to drown children, hear
mothers’ cries, never meant to be your
geography: a line, a border, a murderer.
I was meant for all things to meet:
the mirrored clouds and sun’s tingle,
birdsongs and the quiet moon, the wind
and its dust, the rush of mountain rain—
and us. Blood that runs in you is water
flowing in me, both life, the truth we
know we know: be one in one another.”
Thank you.
[applause]
Thank you. Gracias.
That poem still does things to me. I’m still learning, myself — it’s interesting, the creative process and how that connects. I always say, my poems are smarter than me. I’m not that smart — I go through this whole physiological experience when I read that poem again, and thinking about that river, being that river.
Tippett:Would you read “America the Beautiful Again”?
Blanco:Oh, sure.
Tippett:Page 66.
Blanco:Six-six. Part of this poem was, the title of this book, How to Love a Country, is a statement; it’s also a question. It’s also a self-help book [laughs] for today, a how-to book, maybe. One thing, again, like you were saying about language, why write a book that — I didn’t want it to be a one-beat kind of book, and I also wanted to explore different things, and I didn’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater and be poems just of protest. And I just went back to this poem of patriotism, but the kind of innocent patriotism that you feel as a kid, that pure kind of love for ideals and, at least for me, what this country stands for — I think, still stands for; and so this is going back to that space. And I’ll sing a little bit, which is — you can leave, if you want.
[laughter]
You have your chance now.
So it’s “America the Beautiful,” which is obviously a reference to the song.
“How I sang O, beautiful like a psalm at church
with my mother, her Cuban accent scaling-up
every vowel: O, bee-yoo-tee-ful, yet in perfect
pitch, delicate and tuned to the radiant beams
of stained glass light. How she taught me to fix
my eyes on the crucifix as we sang our thanks
to our savior for this country that saved us—
our voices hymns as passionate as the organ
piping towards the very heavens. How I sang
for spacious skies closer to those skies while
perched on my father’s sun-beat shoulders,
towering above our first Fourth of July parade.
How the timbre through our bodies mingled,
breathing, singing as one with the brass notes
of the marching band playing the only song
he ever learned in English. How I dared sing it
at assembly with my teenage voice cracking
for amber waves of grain that I’d never seen,
nor the purple mountain majesties—but could
imagine them in each verse rising from my gut,
every exclamation of praise I belted out until
my throat hurt: America! and again America!
How I began to read Nietzsche and doubt god,
yet still wished for god to shed His grace on
thee, and crown thy good with brotherhood.
How I still want to sing despite all the truth
of our wars and our gunshots ringing louder
than our school bells, our politicians smiling
lies at the mic, the deadlock of our divided
voices shouting over each other instead of
singing together. How I want to sing again—
beautiful or not, just to be harmony—from
sea to shining sea—with the only country
I know enough to know how to sing for.”
Thank you.
[applause]
Tippett:I’m Krista Tippett, and this is On Being. Today with civil engineer and poet Richard Blanco.
[applause]
Blanco:Thank you.
Tippett:I sometimes ask, at the end of a conversation, this question: What’s making you despair right now, and where are you finding hope? And I feel like we’re so articulate about our despair. And I feel like what is making your heart ache, we’ve heard. I would like to ask you where you’re finding joy, where you’re finding hope right now.
Blanco:Sure. I think it’s interesting, because I was just at that point — I do a small radio segment; it’s called “The Village Voice.” We share poems, sometimes mine. And this — it’ll air next week, but I called it National Oblivion Day, [laughs] and the poems were like, “I can’t take it anymore.” And it was also like, one of the great things that poetry does is allows us to just go to that space so deeply — that somehow we let go of it in some ways. So I’m looking for poetry that does that, that lets me acknowledge and be OK with where we are right now. And that helps a little bit. But I’m trying to think — I guess what keeps me hopeful — and this is something that I — it’s sort of in between all this despair and fear and apprehension — I think one of the most beautiful things that I see, and it happened first with the ban on Muslims and whatnot, that people, at least in my lifetime, for the first time, were standing up for something that didn’t affect them directly, directly. That is a democracy.
[applause]
And so I just love — I just love that we’re stepping up, and we’re realizing, no. OK, this is — I don’t have to go to that protest; it’s not about me. But that poem from the — you know, “First they came for the so-and-so”? Remember that poem? And I think we’re finally — we’re not doing that. We’re not waiting for them to come for us. We are stepping up and realizing that the quality of life, the virtue of this country, depends on every human being’s story, to a certain degree; that our happiness depends on other people’s happiness, and we’re moving from a space of dependence to realizing our interdependence.
And I just think that’s beautiful. Even with the questions — this book was scary in some ways, because I’m broaching subjects that, somehow, I also felt I didn’t have permission to write about, like about Mexican immigration. Well, no, there’s a common ground there. Race, gender, all these kinds of issues. And I think that’s what I’m trying to do, is I’m also trying to embrace everyone else’s experiences and, perhaps, coming up with language together, or saying, “Me too.” So I just love that that’s happening. And it’s hard to see, between the 24-hour newsreel and the clips, so …
Tippett:It becomes a discipline, almost like a spiritual discipline, to take that seriously, too. It’s a way of us, some of us, enough of us, collectively, living this phrase that you have at the beginning of the book, How to Love a Country: “Tell me with whom you walk, and I’ll tell you who you are.” So it’s us, expanding that sense of who we are.
Blanco:And realizing that we’re walking together — or we always have, but actually acknowledging that now.
Tippett:So the book begins with “The Declaration of Interdependence.” Is there a story behind this poem?
Blanco:Again, finding language, finding another angle, finding another dialogue, and how easily stereotyped and typecast people can become in the news; and, also, how we do it to ourselves — “Oh, you drive a red pickup truck; therefore, you must be this person. You shop at Whole Foods; therefore, you must be this kind of person. You drive a Subaru; therefore, you must be this kind of person,” and realizing that that’s really something that’s been slowly chipping away at our brains, this sort of immediate — I won’t say “judgment,” but a typecasting that sometimes, we’re not even aware. So I just wanted to break down some of those stereotypes and create empathy across those stereotypes.
But it also, ultimately, comes from a saying, a greeting from the Zulu people, that was the real inspiration here. The greeting — they don’t say “Good morning” like we do, like we did, this morning. “Good morning; I need coffee.” [laughs] They look at one another, right in the eyes, and say, “I see you.” And there’s an incredible power in seeing and being acknowledged. And if I’m not mistaken, the reply is, “I’m here to be seen. And I see you.” And so we just — we’re not seeing each other as clearly, and I think this poem was trying to let us see each other clearly.
And it’s got — “Declaration of” — I think I mentioned, the next evolvement in our consciousness is from dependence to independence is, really, interdependence. That’s really where, as a country, as a people, as a family, as a world … [laughs]
Tippett:As a species …
Blanco:As a species. If we don’t do that in the face of — well, we [won’t] touch climate, but — [laughs]
“Declaration of Interdependence” — and these are excerpts from the Declaration of Independence.
“Such has been the patient sufferance…
We’re a mother’s bread, instant potatoes, milk at a checkout line. We’re her three children pleading for bubble gum and their father. We’re the three minutes she steals to page through a tabloid, needing to believe even stars’ lives are as joyful and as bruised. Our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury…
We’re her second job serving an executive absorbed in his Wall Street Journal at a sidewalk café shadowed by skyscrapers. We’re the shadows of the fortune he won and the family he lost. We’re his loss and the lost. We’re a father in a coal town who can’t mine a life anymore because too much and too little has happened, for too long.
A history of repeated injuries and usurpations…
We’re the grit of his main street’s blacked-out windows and graffitied truths. We’re a street in another town lined with royal palms, at home with a Peace Corps couple who collect African art. We’re their dinner-party talk of wines, wielded picket signs, and burned draft cards. We’re what they know: it’s time to do more than read the New York Times, buy fair-trade coffee and organic corn.
In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress…
We’re the farmer who grew the corn, who plows into his couch as worn as his back by the end of the day. We’re his TV set blaring news having everything and nothing to do with the field dust in his eyes or his son nested in the ache of his arms. We’re his son. We’re a black teenager who drove too fast or too slow, talked too much or too little, moved too quickly, but not quick enough. We’re the blast of the bullet leaving the gun. We’re the guilt and the grief of the cop who wished he hadn’t shot.
We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor…
We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor…
We’re the dead, we’re the living amid the flicker of vigil candlelight. We’re in a dim cell with an inmate reading Dostoevsky. We’re his crime, his sentence, his amends, we’re the mending of ourselves and others. We’re a Buddhist serving soup at a shelter alongside a stockbroker. We’re each other’s shelter and hope: a widow’s fifty cents in a collection plate and a golfer’s ten-thousand-dollar pledge for the cure.
We hold these truths to be self-evident …
We’re the cure for hatred caused by despair. We’re the good morning of a bus driver who remembers our name, the tattooed man who gives up his seat on the subway. We’re every door held open with a smile when we look into each other’s eyes the way we behold the moon. We’re the moon. We’re the promise of one people, one breath declaring to one another: I see you. I need you. I am you.”
[applause]
Tippett:Thank you, Richard Blanco.
[applause]
[music: “The Zeppelin” by Blue Dot Sessions]
Tippett:Richard Blanco practiced civil engineering for more than 20 years. He is now an associate professor of creative writing at his alma mater, Florida International University. His books of nonfiction and poetry include Looking for the Gulf Motel and, most recently, How to Love a Country.
Speaking of poetry, all the poems Richard Blanco read this hour are part of a new offering of solace and sanity — the Experience Poetry home at onbeing.org. There are short-form and deep dives for any time of day, any kind of day. Our world is noisy, challenging, and tumultuous. But you can get tethered, and be recharged, and find your way to a deeper view, a longer view. Poetry helps. Again, Experience Poetry at onbeing.org.
The On Being Project is Chris Heagle, Lily Percy, Laurén Dørdal, Erin Colasacco, Eddie Gonzalez, Lilian Vo, Lucas Johnson, Suzette Burley, Zack Rose, Serri Graslie, Colleen Scheck, Christiane Wartell, Julie Siple, Gretchen Honnold, Jhaleh Akhavan, Pádraig Ó Tuama, Ben Katt, and Gautam Srikishan.
The On Being Project is located on Dakota land. Our lovely theme music is provided and composed by Zoë Keating. And the last voice that you hear singing at the end of our show is Cameron Kinghorn.
On Being is an independent nonprofit production of The On Being Project. It is distributed to public radio stations by WNYC Studios. I created this show at American Public Media.
Our funding partners include:
The Fetzer Institute, helping to build the spiritual foundation for a loving world. Find them at fetzer.org.
Kalliopeia Foundation. Dedicated to reconnecting ecology, culture, and spirituality. Supporting organizations and initiatives that uphold a sacred relationship with life on Earth. Learn more at kalliopeia.org.
Humanity United, advancing human dignity at home and around the world. Find out more at humanityunited.org, part of the Omidyar Group.
The George Family Foundation, in support of the Civil Conversations Project.
The Osprey Foundation — a catalyst for empowered, healthy, and fulfilled lives.
And the Lilly Endowment, an Indianapolis-based, private family foundation dedicated to its founders’ interests in religion, community development, and education.
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Thank you, for sharing Richard Blanco's powerfully moving poetry.
Here's to waking and walking together.
You've brought to mind a favorite Ram Dass quote, paraphrased, we're here to walk each other home. ♡