Keishla Rivera-Lopez

Diaspora Dream

I have a dream sometimes

that feels more like a nightmare 

in the dead of night,

like a ghost trying to devour me,

a feeling trying to overpower me,

a dream where Borinquen is being emptied.

Poured out, her people go sporadically,

like a wastebasket flipped upside down

the contents disperse

up and down throughout

the eastern United States.

A move that is rationally sound.

Choosing between the cold in the north

And the sun of the south, 

that resembles the Caribbean’s.

Something warm enough to hug your spirit,

an embrace that somewhat feels like home.

Borinquen spills into the Caribbean Sea,

the waves of diaspora transporting

people back and forth, like a game of tug-o-war,

a rubber band that always brings you back,

even temporarily.

Because you see

they don’t truly want to leave.

Se van allá fuera because they believe

a better opportunity awaits them there.

Because they’ve been displaced

by hurricanes and Airbnb opportunities,

environmental catastrophes,

tourist economies

that erase, incrementally,

what is Boricua about Borinquen.

It removes vital pieces;

Puerto Rican people and culture

from the islands’ ecologies.

I dream this dream

as a baby of diaspora,

as a child of migrants

who packed their bags

and left in the 70s for work,

but made a point to return, 

so my siblings and I could see

the true beauty

of the Puerto Rican people,

of their pride and resilience,

of alcapurrias, rellenos y frituras,

sancochos y arroz y habichuelas,

of coquis singing in the campos,

roosters and cows calling you to arise at dawn,

of beaches with cerulean blue waters, clean and free,

of illegal privatization and gringo power,

of the vibrant campos made up of tropical hues,

that fed and shaped our bloodlines

and provided cuentos and remedios

for generations to come.

A place for us to return to;

a place to call home.

I awake scared and anxious because

I wonder, where will my children go?

Will the places and people that cultivated me

during summer breaks still be here?

What will my children see and learn if

Puerto Ricans are being pushed out?

Will Borinquen be something else?

I panic because in this dream

I can no longer find pinchos for a dollar or

empanadillas de pizza y carne sold out of a truck

en las playas… y lloro.

I cry because I can no longer hear

the beautiful cacophony of

Puerto Rican Spanish,

un poco alborote, pero siempre

bello y lleno de historia.

There’s no more Reggaeton or Dembow

playing on the speakers of beach goers,

but instead, the latest viral pop hit

last heard on American radios.

I wake up trying to reassure myself

that it's just a dream.

“Solo fue un sueño,

nada de eso fue verdad.”

That’s what I tell myself.

And then, I remember

the news of tax havens and opportunities

for outsiders in Puerto Rico,

and I know 

the number of encroaching AirBnB rentals

keep on growing.

like the number of Puerto Ricans

that live in the continental United States,

which is more than the archipelago

and there isn’t much that can soothe my soul.