How my country is its own America. I mean: We own the immigrants.

I mean: the immigrants owe us. I mean: the immigrants built our country.

I mean: the bodega across the street, yes, they built that too. In my country,

everyone hates Haitians, the immigrants. They love that I am a Dominican

in America. Because I am a different kind of immigrant. Because I am in

America except I am not. Because I am white like all Americans are white

except they are not. Except I am not the white of the American dream.

Except that there is no American dream. Except that there is no American

dream because America killed it. Or maybe I did. I search for the shadow of

the shadow of the American dream. I mean: out there is a country without

a border. I mean: out there is a country that isn’t my country, isn’t America.

I mean: out there is a country no immigrant has to leave. I mean: I can finally

say my country and really mean my country. I mean: I can finally say America

and really mean America.