I. Red Blood
Red is the blood running through aliens,
strangers of the stars,
amongst invisible borders of burning galaxies.
Red are the veins trembling
when spaceships crash into
burning suns, airport terminals and El Salvador.
Red is the pulse untranslatable on earth
at customs,
the nod taken as terrorism,
the breath mistaken for contraband,
and the twitch doubted as anomaly.
Red are the lungs adjusting to the gravity of suspicion,
the skin renamed “illegal”
and the tongue bitten at every checkpoint.
Red is the heart, orbiting inside its rib-cage planet,
pumping oxygen,
dreams,
and visas alike.
Red are the hands raised for permission,
the palms that bleed when cut,
the hands holding the knife,
the gun,
and the pen.
II. Red Carpet
Red are the tokens
handed like tickets with expiration dates,
selling freedom like a subscription
that you forgot to opt in
and democracy like a limited-time offer.
Red is that dream.
The one with;
a bachelor’s from the liberal arts college,
a master’s from an IVY,
a PhD, a doctorate,
a Green Card,
a dual citizenship,
a house,
a white fence,
two kids,
and parents visiting in the winter.
Red is the fairy tale of assimilation,
and the bootleg American Dream sold in tourist brochures,
where you’re told to “work hard” and get rich,
but only if you’re born with the right skin tone, the right last name,
and the right passport.
Red is the carpet
only rolled out for cameras and diversity quotas.
III. Red Card
Red is the myth of “good immigrants”
as if paperwork makes you palatable.
Immigration forms
written like SATs,
graded by ghosts in fluorescent offices,
where every missing hyphen is a homeland denied.
Laminated I-94s
carried like a holy relic,
two blocks downtown,
just to buy cough syrup.
Red is the dream that fits inside a 4×6 photograph.
Red are the lines outside the consulate,
stamps bruising the passport,
and the waiting room clock where seconds turn to months.
Red are those damn cards,
handed out like pity pamphlets,
telling your rights in bold block letters.
Red is the word—
“approved.”
IV. Red Hat
Red is the hat that became a national hazard symbol.
Red is the platinum-plated populist with a golden toilet,
fighting against cat-eaters, dog-eaters and everyone else too hungry to matter.
Red are the flag-hugging preachers who see brown skin as invasion,
the white saviours on diversity brochures,
the bald prophets of misogyny peddling alpha sermons to boys raised on rage,
and the tech overlords tweeting manifest destiny from glass towers.
Red is 1882, 1917,
and 1996.
Red is 2001, 2018,
and 2024.
Red is the tie that goes with blue blazers and white shirts
and the walls dividing up families.
Red is the myth of white genocide.
Red are our gun deaths
protecting their god-given rights,
and the blood they call freedom.
Red is the hat that became a national hazard symbol.
V. Red Lips
Red are the lips that refused translation,
and rhymed “freedom” with “detention.”
Red is the country your new friends didn’t know existed,
the accent reduction video with a million views
and the last name they cannot pronounce.
Red is the mirror that doesn’t lie,
that shows the pimple, the dark circles
and the girl who made it to class anyway.
Red is the bathroom stall where you cry in peace,
the lock that holds,
and the toilet paper that doubles as tissues.
Red are the homes made in exile,
the first snowfall,
the mug from the campus bookstore that
holds Ceylon Black Tea instead of cold brew Americano,
the friend who buys cough drops in winter before you ask,
the WhatsApp group chats with ten different time zones,
the “good morning” that arrives at 2 a.m.,
the text that says “you good?” after every deportation shown on news,
and the hoodie you never washed
because it smells like someone who held you before TSA did.
Red is the scholarship kid
who writes “immigrant” in gold ink on their diploma,
like it’s an honor to have survived your bureaucracy.
Red is the counter-narrative,
the curse turned verse,
the bruise turned blush,
the wail turned pulse,
and the lipgloss turned warpaint.
Red is the alien,
who dare to be ugly, loud, and ungrateful—
on purpose.
Writer | Amaya Ranatunge ’28 | aranatungearachchi28@amherst.edu
Editor | Sam Huang ’26 | lhuang26@amherst.edu