First Published in Friends Journal: April 2006
Associated Church Press Awards Award of Excellence: Friends Journal for “Driving to El Salvador with Hector and Domingo” by Lisa Sinnett, April.
“This monologue poem allows readers to immerse themselves in a landscape that is both familiar and foreign. The author speaks directly, without sentimentality,
leading us down the ‘two-lane highway’ where we all ‘speak their language and inherit the violence.’ The poem ends with hope, reflecting the hopes and dreams
of the Society of Friends."
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January 17, 1992 Wheatley, Arkansas
Driving to El Salvador with Hector and Domingo
I never knew that I passed invisible in my own country
the double yellow lines of a two lane highway leading me
to perhaps a cup of coffee
sitting down with hands clutching
a shiny brown mug
blowing steam with pursed lips.
I smile at the waitress
dressed in brown polyester, mousy hair
“Hi my name is Susan” welcomes her name tag.
But she does not smile back.
I look across the linoleum counter
and see that I am surrounded
by an army of men, dressed in checked shirts, caps,
talking of distances traveled in their rumbling trucks
I no longer walk invisible
in my own country
I am not white anymore
I travel today with two men,
That God has dressed in brown skin,
and a soft lilting language
that stands in contrast to their violent past
of Spanish conquistadores
and guerillas and soldiers
of a long civil war.
I speak their language too, and
inherit the violence
it is within
and
It belongs to the waitress
in brown polyester
and the men in checked shirts
In their eyes I see
Atlanta burning
I hear them whistling Dixie.
But it’s not the song of a
bird skimming above a sun-baked field
or a young boy kicking up clods of dirt
bare feet sinking in fresh loam
It is the death march of men;
hooded men in white
I hear a drum pulsing loudly and
see a shadowy figure swinging from a tree.
The sweat is gathering on my palms.
I look up and see the waitress in the brown dress.
“your bill.” she says flatly
I feel a prickling on my neck of curious stares
I feel the drum beat more urgently now.
I put three dollars on the counter
and we leave quickly
I open the glass door, the night air
biting my flushed cheeks
and
I dream of a world
without nations