On Writing "Immigrant" – And Why It Had to Hurt

How to lose an Ocean

immigrant
by Ramon Carty

salt tastes sour across these waters
contorted into polite acceptability 
yet; here nothing runs more rapid
than the wet scoffing at my liberty

and if home is a 
tongue's first thirst
why does every swallow 
burn like betrayal?

salt; the taste of sinning

I wrote this poem.

Not as an observer, not as someone turning trauma into art from a safe distance—but as the body in the water. The throat that knows the burn.

Let me tell you why it had to ache.

1. Salt as a Weapon

"salt tastes sour across these waters"

Salt should heal. It's what they throw on icy sidewalks so no one slips. But here, it's sour—spoiled by the crossing. The ocean isn't just water; it's a churning, hungry thing that takes as much as it gives. And when you emerge on the other side, they act like you should be grateful for the rot in your mouth.

2. The Performance of Belonging

"contorted into polite acceptability"

Every immigrant knows this shape. The way you sand down your edges to fit the outline they've drawn for you. You learn to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. You learn to nod when they call your name wrong. You become palatable—something they can digest without choking.

But the body remembers. The spine wasn't meant to bend this way.

3. The Scoff

"here nothing runs more rapid than the wet scoffing at my liberty"

They love the idea of freedom—just not yours. Not if it's too loud, too unapologetic, too foreign. Liberty is a gift they give, not a right you claim. And when you reach for it? That sound—the wet, dismissive scoff—is the sound of a door closing in your face.

4. The First Thirst

"if home is a tongue's first thirst"

Home is the language you cried in as a child. The one that lives in your muscles, your reflexes. The one that spills out when you're angry or in love or dreaming.

But survival demands another tongue. One that stumbles, one that betrays.

5. The Swallow That Burns

"why does every swallow burn like betrayal?"

Because every time you choose the new word over the old one, it feels like a funeral. Every time you let them mispronounce your name, it feels like a surrender. You swallow and swallow until you forget what you're hungry for.

6. Salt as Sin

"salt; the taste of sinning"

Guilt is the immigrant's inheritance.

Guilt for leaving.

Guilt for staying.

Guilt for thriving.

Guilt for not thriving enough.

Guilt for forgetting.

Guilt for remembering too much.

They tell you to wash it all away—but salt lingers.

Why I Wrote It Raw

I didn't want this poem to be beautiful. I wanted it to be true.

I wanted it to taste like blood and salt and the sharp tang of a lie you've been forced to swallow.

I wanted it to hurt.

Because the truth should hurt.

Tell me:

What's a truth you've been swallowing?

What's the taste of your crossing?

Hit reply. Or don't. Some wounds don't need words.

(But if you do—I'm here.)