i don't trust how i remember compton, ca - christian hanz lozada

For Brown Dad, Compton meant normal; 

it meant cans of swiped Skippy dog food; 

it meant night shifts in the boiler room; 

it meant regular but deafening work.

For Manoys, Compton meant stability; 

it meant friends to teach them America; 

it meant shameful Red Wings instead of fly British Knights; 

it meant casually mugging Whites afraid of Browns asking the time.

For White Mom, Compton meant fear: 

it meant fearing stray dogs hunting in packs; 

it meant fearing stray neighbors walking late night; 

it meant rushing inside before sundown when the tired and menacing come.

For me, Compton means the danger of White Memory; 

it’s the dude throwing a brick into White Grandma’s car;

it’s the kids in our yard taking all we left out.

White Memory is confusing the projected pain 

at being robbed of what it feels entitled to 

for a neighborhood seething at stacked decks 

and broken promises.

Christian Hanz Lozada aspires to be like a cat, a creature that doesn’t care about the subtleties of others and who will, given time and circumstance, eat their owner. He wrote the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not. His Pushcart Prize nominated poetry has appeared in journals from California to Australia with stops in Hawaii, Korea, and Europe. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.