Ombligo II

The “post” in “post immigrant” refers to that complicity of which I spoke about before. It could also refer to the presence of a shared trauma—how could I not share in the trauma of separation, of longing, of criminality, of exclusion, when even if I am “legally” exempt from it, it constitutes me? I’m sure Freud or Lacan have something to say about this. I’ll look into it (or not).

Going back to my father’s buried belly button. This is that part of the umbilical cord that remains attached to the newborn after the "unplugging"; it dries after a while and falls off. My mother saved mine, too. But, since they were constantly on the move, she never buried it. I saw it about 15 years ago. It was in a blue, pleather suitcase, wrapped in a white towel. It looked like a slice of dried nectarine. I’m sure it’s been lost by now, eaten by ants, or perhaps it’s wandering the planet looking for me. If I were to find it, what would I do with it? I could bury it in the back yard of my house, which is not technically my house, but belongs, rather, to capital, which belongs…blah blah blah. I would probably carry it with me everywhere I went—in my wallet, next to a poem I’ve been carrying around for 13 years. It’s by Robert Hayden, and the first stanza speaks volumes:

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fire blaze. No one ever thanked him.

That “No one ever thanked him” is the reason I carry it around like I do—among many things, I am guilty of that, too.