Negrito, and his son, little Negrito (and often with his wife) walk the streets, collect trash; not sure what they do with it: bike-wheel attached to a cart behind its back, up and down the streets of Miraflores they walk, sound a horn, let folks know theyre coming, put trash scraps in their cartmove on.
He is a simple man I see, plain, small, three children I have learned, a wife that cares. He, like me came out of a mother naked, and both of us will be naked when we return: the main difference, my mother was born in America, I suppose. Other than that, I dont know.
All around him are brown people, he is black I am white. I hired him today, in the middle of the heat, he and his children to clean, to clean up the garbage behind our home. Gave him water and a coke, a hat for his child, a towel, and twenty-soles. He said he didnt need it, the towel, he was black already: looking at his dirt covered hands.
He will come back Monday, this prideful man, a man o f God, to sweat some more, to make a few more dollars: cut the branches off our tree, it is almost hanging over our doorframe. There is no black silo inside of him; he is pure man, with a shadow, lean, like so many in Peru, just trying to make a living.
#1282 3/18/06 Prose Poetry. Negrito, of Miraflores, so he is known, his real name is Mark, not sure if he knows he is called Negrito, but no one seems to hide the nick name, yet, he is called Mark to his face. He seems pleasant enough, and being black is not a bourdon to him, like it seems to be to so many in the United States; he seems to go along with Gods calling, and does not give off that ore of: intolerance, as so many blacks in America do today. And so I thought this little sketch of a man I met once and will meet again, would be of interest to my readers.
Spanish Version
Translated by: by Rosa Pealoza de Siluk
Negrito, Pequeo Negrito
(San Juan de Miraflores; Lima, Peru)
Negrito, y su hijo, pequeo Negrito (y a veces con su esposa) caminan las calles, recogen basura; no estoy seguro que hacen con esto: carruaje atado detrs de este con una bicicleta con ruedas, arriba y debajo de las calles de Miraflores ellos andan, sonido de una bocina, hacen saber a la gente que ellos estn viniendo, poner restos de basura en su carruajecontinuar yendo.
El es un hombre simple yo veo, plano, pequeo, tres hijos me entere, una esposa que se preocupa. El, como yo vino desnudo de una madre, y ambos estaremos desnudos cuando volvamos: la mayor diferencia, mi madre naci en Amrica, me imagino. Otra cosa aparte de esta, no lo se.
Todos alrededor de el son personas bronceadas, el es Negro y yo soy blanco. Lo contrate hoy da, en el medio del calor, a el y su hijo para limpiar, para limpiar la basura det rs de nuestra casa. Le di a el agua y Coca Cola, un sombrero para su hijo, una toalla, y veinte-soles. El dijo que el no necesitaba esto, la toalla, dijo que ya era negro: mirando a sus manos cubiertas con suciedad.
El volver el lunes, este orgulloso hombre, un hombre de Dios, para sudar algo ms, ganar unos cuantos dlares ms: cortar las ramas de nuestro rbol, que esta casi colgndose encima del marco de nuestra puerta. No hay rasgos de negro dentro de el; el es un hombre puro, con una sombra, delgado, como muchos en Per, solo tratando de ganarse la vida.
#1282 18/Marzo/2006 Poema en Prosa. Negrito, de Miraflores, as el es conocido, su nombre verdadero es Marco, no estoy seguro si el sabe que lo llaman Negrito, nadie parece ocultar este apodo, sin embargo, el es llamado Marco en su cara. El parece suficientemente agradable, y ser negro no es un problema para el, como parece ser para muchos en los Estados Unidos; el parece que va de acuerdo con los llamados de D ios, y no da muestras de: intolerancia, como muchos de los negros en Amrica lo hacen hoy. Y por eso pens que este sketch pequeo de un hombre que conoc una vez y lo volver a ver de nuevo, seria interesante para mis lectores.
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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