André N. Lepine
André N. Lepine (pronouns: he, him, his) lives on Staten Island, works in Manhattan, and writes on the bus in-between the two. He writes mostly flash fiction, and "Colonizer" is his first published poem. When not working as a husband, father, or office drone, he publishes ElephantsNever.com. Follow him on Twitter @andre_n_lepine.
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Colonizer
My children have white skin,
Despite their mother,
And know almost nothing
Of grandmother's tongue.
At least my son can tan.
And daughter's black hair
Contains perhaps some hints.
Still, they look like me.
We only speak English --
Dora's words don't count.
We act like New Yorkers.
You would never know
That just five years ago,
A hundred sixty,
Or even five hundred,
My kind invaded.
Mama invisible,
Grandma forgotten,
They're obscured behind white.
It feels odd to me,
Who loves their mother not
Because of her skin,
To fixate on color.
I hope that they change.
To me, they now appear
Like half of themselves,
Like my genes met her cells
And just colonized.
If true, then it's deeper
Than culture or race,
Than birthplace and power.
My code's defective,
Whiteness a parasite,
My DNA wrong.
How do I repair that,
Or disinfect them?
Behavior doesn't change.
Just now I've forgot
To tell anything real
About wife and mom.
I neglect their stories.
My words eclipse them
Behind my pale moon face
And selfish worries.
Must the children wear, too,
My limitations,
My milky stigmata,
Savage ignorance?
You see, I am too old
To learn something new,
And fear my shortcomings
Will chain children's dreams.
I pray life's secret walls
Will dissipate at
Their touch, like their lips bear
Wakandan tattoos.
Does this gift, I wonder,
My pigment's privilege,
Replace lost heritage,
Or culture's pride denied?
Despite their mother,
And know almost nothing
Of grandmother's tongue.
At least my son can tan.
And daughter's black hair
Contains perhaps some hints.
Still, they look like me.
We only speak English --
Dora's words don't count.
We act like New Yorkers.
You would never know
That just five years ago,
A hundred sixty,
Or even five hundred,
My kind invaded.
Mama invisible,
Grandma forgotten,
They're obscured behind white.
It feels odd to me,
Who loves their mother not
Because of her skin,
To fixate on color.
I hope that they change.
To me, they now appear
Like half of themselves,
Like my genes met her cells
And just colonized.
If true, then it's deeper
Than culture or race,
Than birthplace and power.
My code's defective,
Whiteness a parasite,
My DNA wrong.
How do I repair that,
Or disinfect them?
Behavior doesn't change.
Just now I've forgot
To tell anything real
About wife and mom.
I neglect their stories.
My words eclipse them
Behind my pale moon face
And selfish worries.
Must the children wear, too,
My limitations,
My milky stigmata,
Savage ignorance?
You see, I am too old
To learn something new,
And fear my shortcomings
Will chain children's dreams.
I pray life's secret walls
Will dissipate at
Their touch, like their lips bear
Wakandan tattoos.
Does this gift, I wonder,
My pigment's privilege,
Replace lost heritage,
Or culture's pride denied?
Commentary
André on "Colonizer":
One night, probably around 2 AM, I walked around our first floor with our infant daughter. I had one job: Get the baby to sleep, before 3 AM, if possible. Down to just the nightlights, out of songs to soothe her, I simply cradled her and walked. As often happens when I’m up at night with one of our children, my mind went to the dark places – fear, doubt, self-hatred.
I honestly don’t remember why these particular fears bubbled up that night. But I began to worry about our daughter’s future and identity, about whether she’d experience the full beauty of the world and the richness of her heritage, or whether I’d end up holding her back. So I started composing “Colonizer” in my head, typing the beginnings up later (after 3 AM, no doubt) once she rested soundly again.
Before I continue, I want to thank Christine Taylor and Kissing Dynamite for publishing this poem, and for giving me this opportunity to write some words about it. I must also confess that I have tried to write this blurb a dozen times in the past weeks. And, much as I would like to annotate the poem, or discuss its meaning, I really just want to tell you about my mother-in-law and wife, whose stories I left out.
My mother-in-law grew up in southeast Pakistan and still has family there. She had an arranged marriage as a teenager to a doctor she had never met and only saw one photo of before her wedding day. Soon after getting married, she and her husband moved to the United States, leaving her entire family half a world away. Her father died when she was young, and her mother passed while she lived in the U.S. None of her siblings have ever lived in the Western Hemisphere.
Today, my mother-in-law has celebrated 45 years of marriage to her husband, has raised four wonderful children, and gives generously of her time to help care for our son and daughter. She has tried to teach our son and me some words of Sindhi, her family’s language, though we are poor students so far. She has also shared her Hindu faith and traditions, so that our son loves Diwali like Christmas, and our children celebrated Raksha Bandhan for the first time this past year. Now a U.S. citizen, my mother-in-law has family in such far-flung places as India, Pakistan, Texas, and Ohio.
And my wife, well, I don’t have the space here to adequately describe how wonderful, brilliant, beautiful, patient, and loving she is. Here are a few biographical highlights instead.
Born and raised on Staten Island, the forgotten fifth borough of New York City, my wife has three siblings and a number of friends who count as sisters. With a few exceptions here in the U.S., most of her extended family live either in India or Pakistan. She has traveled to both several times in her life, though not recently, and not with me. She ventured up to New England for college and her early career, but has succumbed to NYC’s gravity as an adult, bringing a spouse with her. She loves nature, science, and education, and has worked as an environmental consultant, teacher, and training specialist. Her classroom experience likely helps her manage her troublesome boys (our son and me).
We have a five-year-old son and a six-month-old daughter. So far, they have enough of my wife’s features and personality that we mainly just joke that “they’re so white!” We agree that their stubbornness and spirit come from both sides of our family. And if they grow up half as good as either my mother-in-law or my wife, they will be good human beings, despite their father.
EIC Christine Taylor on "Colonizer":
True confession: when André's poem came over the transom, and I read the title, I was immediately put off. The word colonizer holds so many negative connotations for me as a person of color, and I didn't want to read it. I skipped ahead to the next submission. Knowing I had to face my own bias, I went back to "Colonizer" the next day--I was moved and surprised by the honesty presented in the poem. I am from a multiracial family (my mother Polish and my father African American), and while I have most often considered the framework of my own racial and ethnic identity, I never really considered how my mother may have felt in her position as a white woman. My father died when my sister and I were still in elementary school, so my mother raised us alone in a predominantly black and Latino neighborhood. I remember the day she sat us down to tell us that because of our racial background the world may not be kind to us. We didn't understand that other white people might be prejudiced against us because she loved us so fiercely. Through tears, all she said was, "I'm sorry." My mother passed away ten years ago, so I can't ask her what she meant by this apology, but André's poem has invited me to revisit this moment. Now as an adult, I can consider the multifaceted ways in which racial prejudice affects families and identities. I wonder now if part of her experienced a sense of self-loathing, and I'm sorry that she, especially as a financially struggling, widowed, single mother, had this extra burden. We can't pretend prejudice doesn't exist: our attention, questioning, and honesty are the tools and weapons that pave the way for our loving. Thank you, André, so many times over. Kiss your babies, lots and often--you, your wife, and your mother-in-law are their gifts.
One night, probably around 2 AM, I walked around our first floor with our infant daughter. I had one job: Get the baby to sleep, before 3 AM, if possible. Down to just the nightlights, out of songs to soothe her, I simply cradled her and walked. As often happens when I’m up at night with one of our children, my mind went to the dark places – fear, doubt, self-hatred.
I honestly don’t remember why these particular fears bubbled up that night. But I began to worry about our daughter’s future and identity, about whether she’d experience the full beauty of the world and the richness of her heritage, or whether I’d end up holding her back. So I started composing “Colonizer” in my head, typing the beginnings up later (after 3 AM, no doubt) once she rested soundly again.
Before I continue, I want to thank Christine Taylor and Kissing Dynamite for publishing this poem, and for giving me this opportunity to write some words about it. I must also confess that I have tried to write this blurb a dozen times in the past weeks. And, much as I would like to annotate the poem, or discuss its meaning, I really just want to tell you about my mother-in-law and wife, whose stories I left out.
My mother-in-law grew up in southeast Pakistan and still has family there. She had an arranged marriage as a teenager to a doctor she had never met and only saw one photo of before her wedding day. Soon after getting married, she and her husband moved to the United States, leaving her entire family half a world away. Her father died when she was young, and her mother passed while she lived in the U.S. None of her siblings have ever lived in the Western Hemisphere.
Today, my mother-in-law has celebrated 45 years of marriage to her husband, has raised four wonderful children, and gives generously of her time to help care for our son and daughter. She has tried to teach our son and me some words of Sindhi, her family’s language, though we are poor students so far. She has also shared her Hindu faith and traditions, so that our son loves Diwali like Christmas, and our children celebrated Raksha Bandhan for the first time this past year. Now a U.S. citizen, my mother-in-law has family in such far-flung places as India, Pakistan, Texas, and Ohio.
And my wife, well, I don’t have the space here to adequately describe how wonderful, brilliant, beautiful, patient, and loving she is. Here are a few biographical highlights instead.
Born and raised on Staten Island, the forgotten fifth borough of New York City, my wife has three siblings and a number of friends who count as sisters. With a few exceptions here in the U.S., most of her extended family live either in India or Pakistan. She has traveled to both several times in her life, though not recently, and not with me. She ventured up to New England for college and her early career, but has succumbed to NYC’s gravity as an adult, bringing a spouse with her. She loves nature, science, and education, and has worked as an environmental consultant, teacher, and training specialist. Her classroom experience likely helps her manage her troublesome boys (our son and me).
We have a five-year-old son and a six-month-old daughter. So far, they have enough of my wife’s features and personality that we mainly just joke that “they’re so white!” We agree that their stubbornness and spirit come from both sides of our family. And if they grow up half as good as either my mother-in-law or my wife, they will be good human beings, despite their father.
EIC Christine Taylor on "Colonizer":
True confession: when André's poem came over the transom, and I read the title, I was immediately put off. The word colonizer holds so many negative connotations for me as a person of color, and I didn't want to read it. I skipped ahead to the next submission. Knowing I had to face my own bias, I went back to "Colonizer" the next day--I was moved and surprised by the honesty presented in the poem. I am from a multiracial family (my mother Polish and my father African American), and while I have most often considered the framework of my own racial and ethnic identity, I never really considered how my mother may have felt in her position as a white woman. My father died when my sister and I were still in elementary school, so my mother raised us alone in a predominantly black and Latino neighborhood. I remember the day she sat us down to tell us that because of our racial background the world may not be kind to us. We didn't understand that other white people might be prejudiced against us because she loved us so fiercely. Through tears, all she said was, "I'm sorry." My mother passed away ten years ago, so I can't ask her what she meant by this apology, but André's poem has invited me to revisit this moment. Now as an adult, I can consider the multifaceted ways in which racial prejudice affects families and identities. I wonder now if part of her experienced a sense of self-loathing, and I'm sorry that she, especially as a financially struggling, widowed, single mother, had this extra burden. We can't pretend prejudice doesn't exist: our attention, questioning, and honesty are the tools and weapons that pave the way for our loving. Thank you, André, so many times over. Kiss your babies, lots and often--you, your wife, and your mother-in-law are their gifts.