Citizen Illegal

The motif of food appears early on in this section, speaking to notions of identity and emotional connection. After “Mexican Heaven” (44) offers a list of foods, which shows Olivarez’s ongoing appreciation of Mexican food, he places “You Get Fat When You’re in Love” (45), a love poem. It echoes the themes of the earlier poem, “Not-Love Is a Season,” but with the central metaphor of changing physical weight rather than the changing of the seasons to indicate love, or the lack of it. 

In this poem, the term love is used as a synonym for extra weight on a person: “you got a little extra love / on your ankles” (45), and so on. It is a way of expressing the contentment love brings, which also brings lots of good eating. However, when love ends in heartbreak, all the extra weight vanishes, “you get skinny,” and although you might actually look better, you don’t feel better. The last lines express the sense of loss manifesting not only in mind and heart, but also at the level of the physical body: “[L]ove left you. / then you left you. / now all you have / is this disappearing body” (45). In this way, food and weight become expressions of emotional well-being and interpersonal connection, not just in a cultural sense but in a romantic one. 

“Interview” (46-47) speaks to The Complexities of Assimilation and Cultural Identity, giving expression to Olivarez’s strong sense of place, and his various attempts to establish a sense of belonging and home where he lives. As often as not, however, he does not feel at home. The poem conveys the sense of always moving on, of arriving but then leaving. He implies the place he feels most at home is Chicago, since his description of driving down Lake Shore Drive contains no negatives. This is unlike his parents’ home, where there is no room for him; Mexico, where no one recognized him; the Bronx, where it took him three years to hang artwork but only three days to remove it when he decided to leave; and finally, the house he grew up in that was foreclosed upon: “[I] still have the key, but the key opens nothing.” This displacement speaks to the speaker’s sense of being torn between two cultures, between assimilation and difference, with each place he lives in offering no permanent sense of belonging or a clear notion of identity. 

In “My Family Never Finished Migrating We Just Stopped,” Olivarez returns to the immigration theme and, through the use of much surreal imagery, explores the long history of migrants making their perilous way north to the United States. He notes that many people have died making the trip, and their bodies have never been found. He envisions them “building a sanctuary underneath the sand” and through some mysterious alchemy spreading beneficence on migrants far into the future, enabling them to “wear / the desert like a cobija” (blanket) (48). Somehow the bones of the dead, “worn thin as guitar strings” (48), will sound the music that will guide the travelers to their home. It is a mystical vision rather than a realistic path, but it expresses the poet’s sense of the continuity of life over many generations and his hope that the dead may have the power to guide the living. 

“If Anything Is Missing, Then It’s Nothing Big Enough to Remember” (49) is also about immigration and assimilation. It highlights the difficult straddling act that a Mexican immigrant to the United States must perform. He is caught between two different cultures and does not belong fully to either. It is like being in a state of in-betweenness, and it is not easy: “[I]t’s hard for one body to contain two countries,” and as a result, “mostly you belong to the river that divides your countries” (49). The sense of divided being is also captured in the following image: “[Y]ou scissor yourself along the lines,” and gradually the prospect of assimilation raises its problematic head: “[Y]ou choose a side, you cut & cut & cut & one day you wake up / & the voice in your head speaks English” (49). Consequently, his Mexican heritage retreats into the background. Old photos fade, as do memories of Mexican grandparents. In the end, he struggles to fully understand the gains and the losses of his immigrant journey: “[I]t’s hard to tell / what you lost, what you kept, & what the price really was.” Olivarez’s speaker thus struggles with the sense that, in not belonging fully to either culture, he may cease to belong to any particular culture, leaving him with no fixed cultural identity at all.

“Sleep Apnea” (50) and “Note: Vaporub” (52) can be grouped together as personal poems about health issues. In the first poem, Olivarez’s speaker reports that he wakes up all too early and is tired all day; he relies on coffee to keep him awake. Even when he does sleep, he experiences a lack of rest (“when i sleep/ i don’t sleep” [50]). The problem is diagnosed by a doctor as an obstructed airway but that does not seem to offer Olivarez any relief. The poem is illumined by similes, such as when he drags “all [his] dreams / by the ear / like misbehaving children” and tugs “the evening/ behind [him]/ like a black velvet cape,” as well as more surreal images: “[T]he moon tries/ to escape my mouth / stars glitter my tongue” (50). The reflections on troubled sleep reflect an inner disquiet that the speaker experiences, suggesting that the issues of a divided identity and struggles with assimilation may have physical as well as emotional effects. 

“Note: Vaporub” is about VapoRub, a cough medicine for children that can also be used for minor aches and pains. Characteristically, Olivarez moves from the real-life use his family makes of the medicine to a flight of fancy in which he imagines more fantastic effects that may result from it, like putting it on the family’s bank account to stop the bill collectors calling. This humor and playfulness masks the seriousness of some of the speaker’s struggles, with the references to bill collectors once more invoking the motif of poverty and economic struggles that his immigrant family faces. In wishing that a common, inexpensive cough medicine could truly “cure” all ills, Olivarez highlights the lack of resources, both social and financial, available to his family. 

The second “Mexican Heaven” (51) in this section presents a Jesus who has a tattoo of La Virgin De Guadalupe on his back and turns out to be, reassuringly or otherwise, “your cousin / Jesús from the block” (51). As with the earlier transformation of St. Peter into Pedro, the transformation of Jesus into an explicitly Mexican Jesús once again subverts traditional views in Western white culture about these religious figures, enabling Olivarez to recast even the Christian Savior into someone who is reassuringly reflective of his own Mexican culture and heritage. Such acts of claiming elevate Mexicans by placing them at the very center of Western religious iconography, challenging the idea of white people being the “default” in religious art and representation. Furthermore, in presenting Pedro and Jesús as part of a minority that is so often discriminated against or excluded by white American society, Olivarez also calls into question social and racial hierarchies that place white persons above Mexicans and other immigrant groups, thereby emphasizing the importance of inclusivity.

The final poem, “Summer Love” (53) returns to the theme of Adolescent Struggles and Coming of Age. After a breakup with his girl, Olivarez’s speaker is haunted by violent visions that reflect his inner anger and turbulence. He was, he admits, “smitten” by her “way past a little bit.” Then, after she leaves on a train, “the visions stop.” Suddenly, he no longer feels any pain from the loss. Such are the mysterious ways of love, loss, and recovery for a young man, but Olivarez ends the poem with a parting shot that suggests he does not entirely believe in what he is saying. After the statement “you are healed” comes the vulgar phrase, “or some bullshit” (53). It seems he is not satisfied with his explanations of what happened in his love life, but he is ready to quit thinking about it and move on.