April 14th - Melting Pots

I am an American
by birth: a human, pried
from a ceramic mould that was filled
from the melting-pot of heterogeneous cultures.
I am a mosaic
of traditions, an amalgamation
of peoples and cultures, distilled
down into one whole, homogenized
sentient creature. People tell me
I should celebrate my heritage
but then they slap me in the face
with it whenever they feel
threatened. At home,
I speak my native tongue:
Dia dhuit, mahair, ahair,
conas atá tú?
Dé tha thu ah deanamh?
Mahair hits me, weeping. She has the nerve
to tell me that
wennaeyr ae sey muh wards enna aulden
heilan tonna, noboody kinnaer
kennit, leass daen haida blode, naow, onna'll
never be respected. I had better
learn to cover up that accent --
it's un-American, I guess,
tae knoow wehl ann sweht wenna sei
my words in clear enunciation and when
tae speek thi weigh. My parents
hate it. Neither are from
the old country, and they feel shame
that their son's tongue turned out to be
a quartered blue field
instead of stars and stripes forever. You'd think
my tongue was red and yellow and that
I wielded it like a weapon
with my hammer and sickle
and universal health care. It seems
Mo chroi ta se marbh
in this country that exalts
the impeccably mixed grey of complete assimilation
and spits out perfectly-formed underdogs
who fight for the American dream
just like Rudy, or Radio, or some other
feel-good story of the century. No other
Scot was e'er 'fraid t'speak his mine, and tho
we've been unnerdoogs fer soom taime,
no one seems to root for us.