Citizen Illegal

As he explores the extent to which immigrants are accepted in American society, Olivarez brings attention to the overt violence in the country, much of which is directed against people of color. In detailing the discrimination and threats that many immigrants face, Olivarez highlights the impacts of racism and violence on immigrant communities.  

In “Poem in Which I Become Wolverine,” he expresses his frustration with the harassment and detainment of Mexican immigrants by the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), dreaming of having superhero powers so that he could cease to be vulnerable and could protect others against racism and violence as well. He also protests against the way that Mexicans are viewed as violent, satirizing the absurdity of such stereotypes. Speaking to an unspecified “you”—by which he likely means a certain type of white person—he writes: “[W]hen you look at our abuelitas you see knives / in their braids, knives in their hips” (37). Continuing in the same vein, this anonymous “you” also sounds an alarm about an “invasion” of Mexicans when Mexican children sing innocuous rhymes in Spanish. 

In “Mexican American Obituary,” Olivarez turns his attention to the pervasive gun violence in America, much of which affects minorities—police killings of Black people, for example, and the threat that such violence poses to Hispanics, including Mexicans, whether from the police or unspecified others. In “Poem in Which I Become Wolverine,” Olivarez refers to his “enemies” (37), who are not just the people who commit the crimes against minorities but pleasant, ordinary, presumably white people who politely express regret about the violence but soon forget about it: 

my enemies aren’t ugly-faced crooks, they don’t laugh

while innocent die.        they point & say how 

tragic.    then go home to pet their cute dogs (37).

Olivarez draws attention to performative sympathy and the valorization of even animal life over immigrant or Black lives, caught in the line about people more absorbed in “pet[ting] their cute dogs” than caring about human victims of injustice. Olivarez thus suggests that apathy plays a dangerous role in perpetuating violence by offering no resistance to it. 

Finally, even the optimism and celebration in “Gentefication,” as a fictional neighborhood reclaims its Mexican cultural identity, cannot escape the shadow of state-enacted harassment and violence, since “the president sends the national reserve” with its barking and spitting dogs to disrupt it (65). However, in this idealized poem, all the people are able to hide in the trunk of a Toyota Corolla, so all ends well; the armed force can find only “grains of sand” (65). Such a vision suggests that, despite the violence and racism many immigrants face, they remain resilient and continue to put down roots as best they can.

Although Olivarez tackles important public issues about immigration and cultural identity, he intermingles them with poems about his family, in particular his mother and father. In doing so, he turns the nature of family relationships into a key theme of the collection.

Olivarez’s relationship with his mom has some serious challenges. He feels that he disappointed her by not studying one of the professions at Harvard, and he also feels guilty that he doesn’t respond quickly enough to her texts. He seems to have no religious feelings, so he cannot relate to her devotion to Jesus. None of that, however, makes any difference to his mother, who loves him unconditionally and is always attentive to his needs: “[S]he tells me I’m getting so skinny & I need to eat more frijoles. she has the pot ready” (“I Tried to Be a Good Mexican Son,” 30). In celebrating his mother’s unconditional love, Olivarez presents familial ties as a potential source of support and emotional fulfilment. 

For his part, even though he tries to be a good Mexican, Olivarez reproaches himself for not trying hard enough, admitting, “all I know how to do is sit down for a good second & leave before a bad one” (30). However, at a deep level the son’s appreciation of his mother is revelatory. Twice he sees her as if clothed with light: “[I]f you catch my mom / in good light, it’s impossible to tell where the sun ends” (10) (“The Voice in My Head Speaks English Now”), a perception that is echoed in “My Mom Texts Me for the Millionth Time” when he celebrates how “her love reaches me / wherever i am” (58). He also praises her for the hard work she does, and ends with this light-filled image: “[A]wash in the glow/ she makes/ so effortless/ it’s impossible/ to tell the light/ comes from her own body” (58). 

If his mother is communicative and open about her feelings, his father is the opposite. He emerges as a taciturn, sometimes stern figure. The poems about Olivarez’s relationship with his father center around the corporal punishment he received as a boy, which was deeply painful for him even though his father claims it was an act of love (“Boy & The Belt”). Nevertheless, the punishment remains so painful in his memory that an entire poem (“Poem to Take the Belt Out of My Dad’s Hands”) imagines a softer, kinder type of parenting. Olivarez’s longing for a gentler type of parenting speaks to intergenerational conflict in terms of values and practices, with something that may have been normalized in the father’s culture and upbringing (i.e., corporal punishment) becoming alienating and saddening for his son, whose values and cultural environment are much different.  

Olivarez also devotes a poem to his halting, awkward attempts to tell his father that he loves him (“Getting Ready to Say I Love You to my Dad, It Rains”). Dad acknowledges this confession with “a grunt & a nod” (61), suggesting that the lack of emotional demonstrativeness does not reflect lack of emotional connection—the father loves his son, he just does not say it openly. Thus, in offering portraits of his relationship with both of his parents, Olivarez acknowledges both the joys and challenges of family life.