LatinosUSA

Student of the dance
   for about five years;
Driving trip south,
   road-side billboards appear.
Mermaids announcing
   elaborate underwater shows,
Lying on their sides
  smiles hiding Jim Crow.
Thoughts of themes, props and music
   could not be effaced.
Drawn like a magnet, 
   Weeki Wachee, the place.
Are we there yet?  Are we there yet?,
   nose pressed to the glass.
Each billboard confirms
   the springs we’ve not passed.
Inviting signs, begin to blur
   as if floating on summer breezes.
Desperate, nagging choruses start
   Can we go there?  Can we go there, Puh-leeze?
Queries met with silence;
   my parents can only stare.
Barely audible, taking turns,
   mumbling,  No, we’re not allowed there.
My seven-year-old brain, stopped at No …
   never questioning my parents’ reply;
Not until recent years, did I understand
   the historical reason why.
Segregated well into the 60s,
   no Negroes free to roam.
From this my family had escaped
   and this my Welcome home.

Copyright © 2025 Suzanne S. Austin-Hill
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