Wading in the River
Rev. Dr. Harold J. Recinos captures the daily struggles of the marginalized in a poetry collection flowing with clarity, agency, and wonder
Hiram Maristany, Hydrant: In the Air, 1963, gelatin silver print, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Museum purchase through the Smithsonian Latino Initiatives Pool, administered by the Smithsonian Latino Center, 2016.30.3, © 1963, Hiram Maristany
Open Plaza ushers in National Poetry Month with excerpts from Wading in the River (Resource Publications, 2021) by poet and cultural anthropologist Rev. Dr. Harold J. Recinos. This poetry collection voices the wonders of the world in the context of daily struggles with marginality and discloses the agency of cultural actors in them. In honor of Easter Monday, Open Plaza has paired 14 poems from Wading in the River with events in the Passion of Christ.
Illustrations are from The Fourteen Stations of the Cross Coloring Book (Crusaders for Christ).
Excerpts from Wading in the River are used by permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers, www.wipfhandstock.com.
POET’S NOTE
I dedicate this selection of poems—“The Letter,” especially—to my brother Rudy Recinos, who died on Easter Sunday, April 7, 1985. He was a 31-year-old junkie who lived on and off with me and on the Bronx streets until years of shooting dope and drinking claimed his life. At the time, I was a pastor on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Rudy walked away from a detox program, and I went to see him in the Bronx after Easter Services. That night, I received a call from the police to come to the morgue to identify him—he was found dead on the sidewalk on Walton Avenue. Rudy taught me that, to live awake in the gospel, one must stay close to human suffering.
—Rev. Dr. Harold Recinos, 5 April 2021
Up Against Whiteness
every morning you could
find him standing with café
and a buttered roll leaning
against a wall next to the
entrance to Lincoln Hospital.
he took his first breath in it,
grew up attending the public
schools, worked in a factory
on Southern Boulevard, and
paid with hard work dues to
be called a citizen. the press
ready to print good white lies
never did say a kind word about
spics like him. you see, he was
blamed for rising crime, failing
schools, drug epidemics, economic
decline and just about anything
white politicians imagined to lay on
him. he was baptized in the basement
of a pretty church beneath a sanctuary
set aside for English speaking Christians
who thought they were free of Sin. one
summer day, he greeted the Mayor who
made a visit to the block sporting a broken
English smile. and hear this, he once stood
on the corner with grown men who shined
shoes on the boulevard and they wept like
hungry kids when they heard news that King
was killed. he believed the rejected prophet
still roamed places with poverty and battered
by hate. he once told me King was
leaning against the hospital wall with
despised Puerto Ricans and young
Black men to whisper in their precious
ears God says hate fails!
I. Jesus condemned to death
The Raffle
I bought a raffle ticket
from the church that
starts without us and
offers bread hard like
stone. drove by houses
with custom made signs
telling us in the world
we are not alone. what
I do know is there is no
use in sounding pretty
with words that never
quench thirst, food too
old to eat and eyes that
never cry about all the
moaning and suffering
going on right now on
the underside of the city
and the southern part of
the earth. how odd having
to dress up to find welcome
in the house of an English
only God and sit with people
whose eyes can’t see the
Crucified One in poor flesh
and then hear them say nice
of you to come with a tone
really saying, “Spic you’re in
the wrong place.” I don’t think
this raffle ticket will win a damn
thing but now that I have it
let me ask you Black Christ
what cross other than the Lilly
white church would you like
me to bear?
II. Jesus made to bear his cross
Confession
on Sunday the well-dressed
preacher tells us to repent
our sins and the restless kids
in the pews get a vague look
on their faces, while the pretty
dressed adult folk raise their hands
high like something was about
to touch them. the choir softly
sings over his shoulder like the
voices were calling on heaven
to hear every admission and step
into the flat world. we sing hymns
older than the ages of the eight
people living in my apartment put
together and they don’t even speak
a word of Spanish. we’ve climbed
into that service for generations
but face the same vertigo when
it comes to an end. who knows,
the pretty stained-glass windows so
alien to Jesus may be nearer to God
than the city mayor who never visits
these parts.
III. Jesus falls the first time
The Station
when you leave the elevated
subway station at the bottom
of the stairs, where many sad
springs ago the first Spanish
speaking mothers walked, in
the dimly lit social club named
Ponce you will hear the echo
of a guitar and a faint voice
nearly out of breath sing all
is fine from the bottom of old
lungs. mothers who spent the
day way downtown washing
floors on their hands and knees
stop at the pizza shop next to the
the social club to order a pie
for kids at home and they stare
out the shop window with hope
in their eyes that can alone stop
the gods of sorrow who watch them
live poor. pause here to talk and
you will learn no one expected
to be so invisible to the world
for so many long, long years.
IV. Jesus meets his mother
Sit with Me
let’s sit down for a little
while at least six feet apart
in what is left of the day’s
vanishing light, here on the
park bench where friends and
lovers have for years weaved
stories together without clear
beginnings or ends. let’s find
ways to whisper across this
distance what we miss about
routine life, the times of dangerous
excitement, moments of everlasting
joy and even the periods curved
by a sadness that held us still in
the dark. let’s look at the lights
starting to show in the windows
of buildings in the devastated
city, listen with a smile to the
singer standing on a fire escape
casting her voice the length of
the city to cheer the pandemic
faces and carry them away from
their blues. let’s talk a little bit
about paradise still mysteriously
leaking light, calling into question
the degenerate god invoked by
the callous rich in a time of illness
and give daily birth to ourselves in
the knowledge that better times
are getting closer to us.
V. Simon of Cyrene is made to bear the cross
The Torn Veil
time will change,
the days will soften
with the laughter of
old men and women
holding hands on the
park benches and the
fractured hearts will
not forget but mend.
time will change, the
exhausted world will
make new memories
of bliss, there will be
no one to call a fool
for believing, faces
will not be covered,
touching prohibited,
and wandering light
will return. time will
change, the flowers
will blossom, rabbits
will run into the night
faster than our ticking
clocks, the birds will
sing lullabies for us to
hear and children will
laugh riotously again
in every tongue.
VI. Veronica wipes Jesus’ face
Detention
last night a Salvadoran
child prayed in a wire
box for her freedom.
others cried, the guards
shouted silence and she
let loose a squall of tears
for the tiny brown girl
who laid next to her they
finally carried away to be
shipped back South in a plain
box. you could hear her talking
to God in the dark on tiny knees
asking heaven above to keep the
sight of her brown skin away
from the white hands throwing
American flag painted stones. I
took her hand and said with misty
eyes on one visit child the color of
your skin is beautiful like the earth
and full of brilliant life.
VII. Jesus falls the second time
The Jordan River
I see the world march
demanding a reckoning,
faces awakened from a
deep sleep, dark mouths
shouting at the deaf in
high places and those
hiding in the shadows
with white nationalist
dreams. I see a strip of
light breaking on walls
that must fall, on flesh
that will not rest until
injustice halts, in dark
eyes that have been to
the mountain tops and
on the faces of God’s
Black children who move
nations closer to truth. I
see well enough to know
the triumph of a new world
beginning, the citizens of
earth translating Black and
Brown lives into names
that matter. I see the dusty
remains of the innocent who
were slain, Jesus raising them
from the dead to live in an
undivided house. yes, I see
the banks of the Jordan River
where captives wept for
freedom before they went
across.
VIII. The women of Jerusalem weep over Jesus
Despair
I dusted the sorrow
kept on a shelf when
you went out the door
for a run and stopped
in the store that cried
wolf. then, once more
I fell to my knees when
the news of your lifeless
body stumbled to us.
I heard that singing in
a church are we yet
alive and wanted to say
we are serving a life
sentence until white
executioners are ready
to kill. for you see in
our mutilated world the
guilty almost always go
free, they are celebrated
by symphonies, praised
by presidents and prayed
for to a God who wants
them to feed on hate. we
are speechless about Black
lives gone and not a page
will be added to the White
history books anytime in
the new year!
IX. Jesus falls the third time
The Veil
the veil was ripped
from east to west,
north to south, by
shouts and screams,
the cops and secret
service, in desolate
hearts and the loath
to be silent. the veil
was torn from top to
bottom before the
arrival of Christ on
Good Friday, ragged
by the white need to
beat, stomp, and choke
the life out of Black
and Brown America
like it has for years
in Puerto Rico, El
Salvador, Honduras,
Guatemala, Central
America and Africa. the veil was
torn today by press
clips, next week by
the decent people who
never talk back, for many
more years to come by
the poverty, hate, racism,
violence, toxic politicians
and brand name church
that never could see
Christ’s disfigured hands
multiplying five loaves
and two fish.
X. Jesus is stripped of his garments
Floyd
unarmed Black men and
boys shot by the cops are
human beings with names
no longer living. I weep
dry tears hollering what
God can be thanked for the
violence of these badged
white men who unhooded
lynch? who stands against
knees on Black necks, kicks
in the back and these bullets
that bring destruction to so
many taken from us and
leaving us to rage? I cannot
understand why the good
Lord has not stopped these
uniformed offenders who believe
our lives do not matter! there
is no time for silence when
Black lives are laid out cold,
justice is bent and hate can
find rest in the world where
freedom is undone.
XI. Jesus is nailed to the cross
What Matters
if I don’t wake up
tomorrow let my
voice be carried
loudly in the wind
until it rests with the
cries of the poor, the
suffering, the ill, the
hungry, the homeless,
the imprisoned and
every child’s tears on
the perfectly adorned
altars of the locked up
church. when I fade into
the memory of history,
with my Spanish name
dissolved by the nation
that always called me a
spic, let Angels carry
what remains of me in
dust to the place where
the lights are never out,
where Black is always
beautiful and Brown is
forever the color of God’s
own magnificently jeweled
crown. if I die in this very
troubled season, with the
candles on my altar thinly
burning, the Chinese made
clocks flawlessly keeping
time, do not weep for me
but stand patiently while
you breathe in defense of
those hated, vulnerable and
weak.
XII. Jesus dies on the cross
The Letter
Dear Rudy, I thought
you might want to look
over my shoulder from
heaven to read a few
lines. You probably
saw me reading your
favorite Psalm that
says the Lord is your
salvation and you have
nothing to fear. when
loathsome politicians
laughed about sending
anonymous agents to
batter mothers and vets
like your half brother
and father on Portland
streets. this Bible text I
put on your headstone
came into my heart. Tell
me, did you put it there
to say no matter how the
wicked advance they will
fail? despite the running
years, I can’t report that
people down here are any
closer to salvation, more
like splinters are coming
out of their pores speaking
dirty English and filling
heads with white lies. on
top of all the hate, we are
in a pandemic and people
in the old neighborhood
are undertaking a journey
to meet you faster than the
priests can make it to them
to offer last rites. I am sure
you heard me calling out
for aid and wondering like
Baldwin’s Staggerlee how
long will good people keep
up the freedom charade? tell
me, don’t these assholes in
white robes and those submissively
watching crosses burn know by
any means necessary we shall
breathe!
XIII. Jesus is taken down from the cross
The Funeral
the people with loving
hearts imagine your journey
to heaven. we heard precious
stories of your life, heard the
sad songs that come for us
in death, saw the family you
loved, cursed the shameful
smallness of hate, prayed
with the world driven to
march by your very last
breath and saw you push
gaily into resurrection. in
the world, time will never
be the same now that you
along with so many others
are gone, dreams for many
of us around here will not
not be all they seem, yet no
one is afraid, grief will never
swallow us up, and all the
grim actors unmasked will
write their names on dirt
and they will be brushed
away by God’s own last
breath!
XIV. Jesus is placed in the sepulchre
“Wading in the River is animated by a theopoetics of lo cotidiano. Rooted in our precarious and pandemic times, the poems of Harold Recinos chronicle the intensity of daily living from social and racial unrest in our cities to state-sanctioned cruelty at our southern border. He lays bare the damage done to bodies marginalized by the machinations of a dysfunctional president and reveals resistance unleashed from unexpected cyberspaces by ‘TikTok teens and K-Pop fans.’ Composed in barrio beats of his familiar streets en el Bronx, and with lyrical Latin@ì playfulness with dos lenguas, ‘a sofrito English, refried words with a taste of órale people,’ Recinos calls us together ‘to weep for the God who has been driven into exile!’
—Carmen Nanko-Fernández, author of Theologizing en Espanglish
