INTEGRATION COURSE
That there it is again, calling me almost nightly now
beyond the four walls that I am always climbing
for a rendezvous with the Scheherazade of the setting sun
to a tango with the pretty night in Tunisia, (the pretty, pretty night)
As we leave the castle at the corner of the Gerichtstrasse Esplanade
me and my black friend Jesus Mohammad, arm and arm, hand in hand, conspicuous pride,
last seen waiting at the red light for a streetcar named DESIRE,
never a seat, standing room only for the green card express, long bumpy ride
At the footsteps of the neon door of the Lust Garden, clenching my invitation to alienation in hand
I bow and cue behind the velvet rope to pay my alms
at the temple of the good life, in the capital of the Promised Land.
I hear someone stare – if you will just lose your religion we could accept you
that if only you could just change your skin from ugly to beautiful
you could assimilate
and then integrate, but right now we don't need you to populate.
Indeed, the other nations only exist
for us to dominate.
A crowd gathers, and Jesus starts again the bad habit of manic street preaching
but forgetting it is the land of blood and pride and proof and no -
not a bible to be found (all burned years ago)
so we preach from memory, uselessly, LOVE - WHILE THERE IS TIME, to disapproving scowls
and someone tugs my sleeve to stare
that if you could just shut your mouth, you...you pseudo citizen sort of,
and put the pen down – we could turn your disturbing smile into the national frown.
Your permanent mask, if anyone should ask.
That if you could just forget all those wars and what we did
and pretend we have all changed, like we said we have,
then you can be transformed by magic paperwork from your natural inferiority,
if you will just commit to our myth of superiority.
(I know this part is disturbing, but)
It's now the GDR age, let's all just turn back the page.
There's a mandatory course on how to act, find it at the Department of Conformity,
or you can pick it up at the Ministry of Rage.
We don't care and don't need anything from you, uh...well,
except your life of tax revenue
That if you could just see things our way, maybe
just maybe we will let you stay. But please, please don't pray, (this is your final warning)
with the new surveillance we can spot you a kilometer away...oh, and
remove the veil so we can see your face,
in order to document your race.
Get up, off your knees, pay a few fees, and
learn the mother tongue, you - you ugly, ugly american,
if you want to see our trees.
Ditch your friend, if you want to get in,
put down the pen, so the fun can begin...
Tony Wynn
Dispatches from the Ugly American
Berlin
May, 2014