By Ernesto Tinajero
A common image of oppression comes from wanting the very blood of the poor. The tales of vampires dominate dark recess with legends of noblewoman Elizabeth Báthory bathing in the blood of poor peasants. Taking the blood of the poor makes a powerful metaphor. Only it is not a metaphor. When I first moved to Spokane and needed work or after finding a low paying job, I gave blood for my bread. Many do so. I saw the real face of the poor and the one seldom depicted on FoxNews: people willing to give there very life essence to feed their children. Rather than lazy welfare queens, which haunts the imagination of Talk Radio, these poor, I among them, would strap on a needle and for 30 minutes as a machine would squeeze plasma out of us. Below is a poem in honor of those willing to give blood to live. Jesus gave his blood for us and today a poor mother will strap on a needle to feed their children.
Ode to the Blood Plasma Boogie
Like squeezing grapes,
our blood flows
out of us, recycles
and splits out a bit
of us, golden in color,
into a plastic
bottle. We, the poor,
lay side by side, on blue
recliners, selling our blood
plasma to pay
our weekly bills. Twice
a week, four weeks
for the month,
and I have half
enough of our monthly
groceries to fill our empty
cabinets. My palm pumps
to aid in the removal,
resting on return,
a seven minute cycle in total.
I breathe like rising bread.
Posters proclaiming healed
kids befriend us, college students,
unemployed, the under-employed
and me. One gets to know
which technician (they are
not called nurses)
pokes easy, and which has
a perchance to blow a vein,
costing one a future visit.
The technicians are kind and know
the regulars by name. For them,
the hours—long—the coats,
white—sort of lab coats—
sort of doctors coats
whatever the intent.
They pick up and clean, while
bleeding others, their job.
They are poor, like us, and know
the routine. The blood
harvested for good, for gold.
Before the needle,
iodine colors
and circles the spot
of puncture, turning
the skin a fecal brown.
Priests to the ritual
of our desperation
mixed with routine,
they become skilled
with calming nerves.
A single mom stops
here after waiting
tables and before picking up
her Marybeth from Grammy’s.
She reads the third
book of Twilight. Shimmering
Vampires in one hand,
a needle sticking out
and attached to a tube
sucking blood
in her other arm.
A boy of 20, wearing
a Gonzaga sweatshirt,
tours in preparation
for his first time. He will remove
the sweatshirt,
and look away as the needle
makes its way for the first
time into his flesh.
The new ones have a macabre
hesitation. Dread acting
as toothpicks propping open
their eyes. The others,
me included,
are kind and explain
the not so bad of it.
We are called donors, though
we are selling. Nobility
of helping the burned,
the children, the needy
hang as artwork, reassuring. Yet
it is the demand of money
that draws us here.
Blood drawn in five,
six, seven or occasionally
eight cycles fills the bottle
enough for us to receive
the daily portion. Strange,
many of us race
each other, pride
in taking less time being
milked and sucked by the whizzing
machines worn like a purple
heart to soldiers. Many
boast at their quick
time.
So, twice a week
I sell my blood,
spending the silver shekels
on food, heat and electricity. I
join the regulars who recognize
each other with little
chatter. The TVs are there
to entertain the assembly
line of blue
couches filled with us
passing time, selling our
essence.
Oprah, Phil
and others offer advice
on how to live.
Sometimes, a Hollywood
money movie plays, comedy
or romance. Both my arms
have semi-scars on the crevice
opposite my elbow. Semi-scars?
What do you call
an opening in the skin
that closes between sessions?
A wound? But intentionality
robs those opening
in my arms of being wounds
without connotation
of accident. Scars?
They will not fully
heal, until
my economy changes.
Those who give
for money recognize
the mark on my arms.
I wear long sleeve
shirts that can easily
be rolled up.
The last cycle, then they
add saltwater to replace
the golden fluid. A cotton
swab of alcohol, a quick
wrap of skin colored
medical tap, and a paper
with four numbers crosses
my palm. Punch them
into the mock ATM,
$20 early in the week
and $25 later in the week.
I walk out, arm
in a mundane bandage,
and I open the metal door
and walk into the afternoon
sun starting to descend
into another July
night.
