Transcript

I’m Maggie Smith and this is The Slowdown.

Several years ago, I flew to Ireland for a literary festival. I remember entering customs and immigration when I landed, and having a banana confiscated from my backpack. I’d bought it at the airport in the US, but had forgotten about it by the time I’d reached Ireland. (Knowing me, the candy and salty snacks I’d bought for the long flight didn’t get forgotten!)

I had no idea that certain agricultural products—like plants, fruits, nuts, and seeds—are restricted and must be declared when traveling internationally. It turns out you can’t just bring a banana from one country into another.

I did know, however, that you can’t carry mace into Canada. I learned that in the mid 1990s, when Canadian border patrol made me sign over the canister that hung on my keyring. My college friends and I were driving across the border from Michigan into Ontario, eager to kick off spring break, and my contraband held us up for a bit.

These are nothing but innocuous anecdotes—the banana and the mace. I didn’t feel much anxiety either time, because I wasn’t in danger of getting into real trouble. I was a white American woman entering another majority white country.

But when citizens of other countries arrive here in the United States, passing through customs and immigration at the airport, the interviews with customs officials can be anxiety producing. Officials ask the traveler a series of questions, including where they are coming from, what the purpose of their trip is, where they are staying, how long they plan to stay in the US, and if they have anything to declare. I’m sure it’s a worrisome process for many people, regardless of the political climate. But I think it’s even more worrisome under administrations that are hostile toward immigrants and nonwhite travelers, and in times that feel fraught. Like right now.

Today’s poem looks at the anxiety and the absurdity of America: How many people seem fixated on the dangers outside our borders without acknowledging the dangers within.

Are you bringing fruits, plants, seeds,
by Karen Llagas

animals, disease agents,
snails?
             soil?                O border

agent,      buffed and blushing,
monsters
             are portable too.   The one Hollywood
imported,    the one  wild and winged
and cleaved
             at the waist?      She  would travel
her tendriled       tongue
across   your stone wall abs    to reach

the soft liver,       her hunger    a murder.

What is the value
             of   all the articles     that will remain
                    in the United States?

I must have heard you say
            particles, which is    only partly
what we are,
            since we are also waves,
reporting     back to the moon.     Forgive me,

I must have been daydreaming    of pounded  rice
             sweetened       with crab fat.
I am looking at you        and thinking fondly

             of red,   necessary agent
to other colors.     It’s 5:40 AM, we are both hungry

and my advice  is bread.   Do you know a rosebud
that refuses
              to bloom is called a bullet?    How many flowers now

spangle  our streets,  dear agent,  because our country
is a clenched fist?

Step in front of the camera                try
              not to smile                      O but I have
more to declare.

“Are you bringing fruits, plants, seeds,” by Karen Llagas from ALL OF US ARE CLEAVED © 2023 Karen Llagas. Used by permission of Black Lawrence Press.