The Migrant Mothers Story

1946—
Picking cotton in Arkansas

A not so warm welcome from the farmer.
Chicken coup accommodations.

Sisters, Hermanas,
Niñas,
color bronce como sus abuelas,
raza noble.

Happiness glitters in their bright brown eyes.
They laugh as young girls do.

Hot from the field,
quaint country market,
una soda para refrescar.

Then a cruel reminder of where they are,
“We don’t serve your kind!”
Comes the voice of racism and white supremacy,
the familiar lash,
of Bible Belt Christianity.

In the spirit of Langston Hughes,
“The Dream Deferred”.

The moment—
imprinted on their innocence like boot prints in deep snow,
a cold impression—that will never melt.

A migrant child’s, on-again off-again education,
children plagued by racial segregation,
a system
with a singular purpose,
to prepare them to be farm workers
and hotel housekeepers.
“The Dream Deferred”.

America,
the land of opportunity,
for some—but not for them.
“The Dream Deferred”.

1953—
Their brothers,
home from the war,
Korea was their patriotic duty.
Proud, Brown men,
Americanos born of Mexicanos,
proud to serve—though signs proudly display,
“No Mexicans or Dogs Allowed”.
“The Dream Differed”.

Shed blood!
Pick crops!
but stay in your own Brown Lane
is the prevailing wind of that Great America,
the land of the free and home of the brave.
Free to labor in her fields,
and be brave enough to shed blood in her wars,
But to the Gringo,
they are disposable, invisible people.

A Great and prosperous America,
unless your skin is brown,
and you speak the tongue of your abuelos. 

For the sake of her children and grandchildren,
It is no wonder, she fears to have
America, made Great Again.