By: Teresa Castillo
When the sun comes up in the morning,
with rays that stretch out to touch the dew on the leaves,
they tuck away within the mounds of dirt,
perfectly lined across great plains.
The fog is dense
and creeps above the agriculture.
The fresas, cilantro, lechugas and repollo.
The fog is dense and creeps above the people.
They tuck away,
to shy away from the cold in the early morning,
from the sun in the afternoon.
They wake before their children to go out and work in the fields.
They leave their children to look after themselves
for the sole purpose of bringing el pan a la mesa.
They come home tired,
still looking to change the world they live in,
through ambition, tough work and mounds of hope in education.
My grandfather crossed the border, through false identification.
My twin aunts followed, at the early age of sixteen.
They packed away their clothes onto school-designed backpacks and alongside well-paid coyotes,
crossed the vast desert through the night.
They slept in a corner of a dining room,
Sacrificed to send money to their siblings.
In Mexico, my mother, among them,
young and unafraid, for my aunts hushed their real experiences
with gifts sent
From el norte.
Sacrifice.
They took upon themselves to live in a world of English
Where Español was only in the dark creases of the neighborhoods
they passed, over the years.
They had only themselves,
trapped between two worlds, no bridge for connection.
Their father, the protector, who brought them here to work.
Was he the definition of a true feminist?
For the sake of keeping his family alive and well.
Treated his oldest daughters as equal as his sons.
Sent them to work, not to find a husband.
For he…
He was off in late night cantinas,
while they slept beside each other on that cold floor.
The fresas, cilantro, lechugas and repollo, come
As gifts from el norte.
They no longer come hushed or enveloped in deep secrets.
They come with stories grown from ignorance.
From el norte to the north.
