And so I was almost going to say I'm
going to end on a happy poem.
But I got one more.
One more almost.
So they mentioned the raisins poem.
And this was a question we talked about.
We talked about identity in one of the classes
and poems you should or shouldn't write.
And what does it mean to be the type of writer
you've become labeled, whether it's Chicano or Chicana,
whether it's a native or Indian writer, whether it's in Arizona
and writer or LGBTQP.
There's so many acronyms that I can't keep up
with the acronyms.
One of them probably describes me, though,
somewhere along the line.
But we talked about that.
And this was one of the poems that
even from some of my peers.
They felt like why a commodity poem?
So government food.
Well, because this is what we ate and still eat often.
And so-- I mean, we talked about identity,
and this is one of those things that we
told some of the students that you just write what's in you.
Don't worry about what anybody thinks.
And so I always make a joke that I
think anybody who's eaten government food should
write a commodity poem because it's
a special thing, that food.
This has an epigraph from Mencius.
And is it only the mouth and belly
which are injured by hunger.
"Why I hate raisins."
And one of the questions actually said
from this high school student, is
like do you really hate raisins?
And I do.
"Love is a pound of sticky raisins packed tight
in black and white government boxes the day
we had no groceries.
I told my mom I was hungry.
She gave me the whole bright box,
USDA stamped like a fist on the side.
I ate them all in 10 minutes, ate too many, too fast.
It wasn't long before those old grapes set like Black clay
at the bottom of my belly, making it ache and swell.
I complained.
I hate raisins.
I just wanted a sandwich like other kids.
Well, that's all we've got, my mom sighed.
And what other kids?
Everyone but me, I told her.
She said, you mean the white kids.
You want to be a white kid?
Well, too bad, because you're my kid.
I cried.
At least the white kids get a sandwich.
At least the white kids don't get the shits.
That's when she slapped me, left me holding my mouth
and stomach, devoured by shame.
I still hate raisins but not for the crooked commodity lines
we stood in to get them winding around and in
the tribal gymnasium.
Not for the awkward cardboard boxes we carried them home in.
Not for the shits or how they distended my belly.
I hate raisins because now I know
my mom was hungry that day too.
And I ate all the raisins."