That question at the end...

I love the desolate yet nostalgic feel of this poem. History, even painful history, seems to breed nostalgia in spite of itself sometimes. Your imagery is dramatic and immediate, but also haunting. My people didn't come to the US so long ago that I can't relate to these lines:

"Our adults' heads filled with ineptly concealed
second-guesses, swirling questions
they couldn't put into words,
nor even less answer

As we grew, our heads filled too, like some curse
until here we are, our poorly phrased questions
bearing fewer answers still"

Or to their echo in the final stanza:

"Had they uncoated from this white flat's dust,
slipped the smoothness of the concrete cells
of the corridors of the places of my baptism,
would I now write clear phrases,
or begin to offer questions
and deliver the answers."

What you reference here is so familiar to me from my own experience of growing up in a family of people who essentially still considered themselves to be immigrants, and having to learn, as an adult, to find my way through the morass of half examined and often conflicting assumptions I had inherited, to mercilessly sort through the chests and boxes of sentimental keepsakes and find what was actually useful to me.

Not sure if any of this relates to your poem... but I had fun writing about it ;)