snack time in an idyllic garden…
Ana Carmona is a Bronx Native, deeply passionate about storytelling and advocating through the arts; she enjoys the process of doing so with photography, the craft of theatre, and writing in particular.
“listen to elders, don’t follow your passion,
sit orderly fashion, they don’t have compassion,
did you say something?
shhhhhhh”
snack time in an idyllic garden is not for all.
By Ana Carmona
a gate opens,
the sign reads “for anyone and everyone.”
where captivated dreams can be lived and relieved.
everyone has a chance in the idyllic garden,
pale skinned kids,
please take a seat,
it's okay, you’re just learning,
don't cry, the garden is for all.
a plate on the desk,
zip lock bags with the most organic,
brightest, freshest, handpicked,
heaven-sent carrots.
a cup of ranch dressing,
it's impressive,
how it sits alongside tempting,
crafted with love,
made up of exact proportions
of earth's greatest invention.
it consumed the children,
opened a door,
setting their path,
to success
from a small garden
that offered them snacks
preparing them for life outside.
everything got handed to them.
everything.
so someday they would sit in an office,
veggie fried brain, they’ll teach your children someday-
in schools where dreams
shine brighter than skyscrapers,
but that’s all they'll ever do, is shine.
because away from the idyllic garden
is a hidden alley,
a garden of wild flies buzzing,
decomposing fruits root deeper into the ground,
burying years of untouchable dreams,
and lives taken too soon.
in this garden, stroll shadows of those
that didn't make it past eighteen,
missing bullets, they pull up to guard our avenues.
this alley wishes to grasp
just a speck of refreshable, savory, delightful fruits,
an endless amount to resuscitate and
remain open to provide a home to the unfortunate.
because snack time isn't the same,
and not everyone is lucky enough
to get chopped up carrots
and ranch dressing at their service.
because brown-skinned kids,
bodies stiff, follow the rules.
this ain't no preschool.
listen to elders, don't follow your passion,
sit orderly fashion, they don't have compassion,
did you say something?
shhhhhhh
he’ll cuff your wrists,
erase your imprint like it's never existed.
cafeteria tables crowded,
chipped plastic plates,
half frozen chicken sticks,
unwashed, dirt infused leaves.
spoiled milk of all sorts.
we don't crave, instead
conversations overpower the rage,
of not being fed the same.
bodies programmed to think
they’re deserving of the littlest things.
because growing up,
whatever you’re fortunate enough to have is enough.
you accept everything given
and don't have the luxury to decline
or ask for a better garden.
you don't complain, you settle for less.
but i want to rise, we want to rise,
but our brain is rotten,
we’ve been forgotten;
this garden holds criminals,
can't let future entrepreneurs
escape the bars meant to imprison them.
“your ancestors were free,
but we’ll make sure no ones looking this time.”
we’re starving, dying, weeping, malnourished.
we want the sweetness of fruits
at the tip of our tongues for an eternity,
we want our garden to be majestic,
know what it feels like to be loved indefinitely.
give us a taste of what it means
to be whole, not part of a whole.
it will never make sense
how we’re in the same garden
how summer and spring are seasons of rebirth,
but fall and the winter
bring chaos and destruction.
chilly days and nights,
sunsets too soon,
we're not given enough time to shine
so we crumble.
we’re broken beings
but all we want is a decent plate on the table,
give us something to thrive off of,
where we can build our dreams from,
be enough to survive in the wilderness.
we want what everyone else gets.
all we all want is snack time,
a little bit of freshness,
freshen me up.
freshen us up.
don't tell us to straighten up.
wake the fuck up,
isn’t eating decent food a human right?
it shouldn't be a question.
eating bruised apples is less exhausting
than seeking answers,
so we lay our dreams in a coffin,
every night attempt
to manifest them,
we want this to be of existence
but it's helpless.
a kid sits on a table
having the luxury
to pick from pineapples to pomegranates,
the blood of our dreams slipping further away,
and once again we settle in our imprisoned garden.
on the other end sits another kid,
sipping on spoiled milk,
eating oozing strawberries.
getting told to eat, eat, eat, against his will.
he must eat to survive, he doesn't have a choice.
hang in there.
someday, we’ll have our own garden,
we’ll rebuild the one given to us
on purpose to erase us,
we’ll write our own narrative,
grow our righteous fruits,
we’ll free ourselves of the constraints
we’ll turn what was thought of as a fantasy.
to a reality in the idyllic garden.
