they call me hispanic

they call me hispanic, latino, brown
what do they know?

they call me wetback, chicano, tex-mex
they build a wall

they say we're good fo'nuthin', yet use our tax dollars
for pumping petrol in their border patrol

they call me hispanic, latino, brown
mandatory labelling, profiling frenzy

they knock our doors in the middle of the night
asking for josé, for hernán and rita

they won't let our children speak spanglish
and yet they order undocumented fajitas

they send me to eat in the kitchen when company comes,
but I laugh, and eat well, and grow strong

they call me hispanic, latino, brown
they build a wall


silvia arroyo (El Paso, TX, 1972)

pan de carne*

swinging our hungry bodies we stumbled upon Him
those who wanted not to believe
were left in the desert
not wanting to see that there it laid
a wooden tray
with pan de carne*

those who ate survived
those who ate complied
those who ate were saved

faith was the ultimate trench for dignity
and we dug

those who turned their backs
those who laughed
those who laughed harder
we still hear their laughing

but we were there
sharing our pan de carne*
for every bread is made out of Him
and He lives in every crumble

nurturing
caring
forgiving
redeeming

for every bread is made of Him
faith and dignity as one
a vow for the simplest recipe:
be strong
believe


silvia arroyo (El Paso, TX, 1972)


* Editor's note: meat bread

tearing at the border

lock and block the entrance
for the greater walls lie only miles away
not in China

lock, block and patrol
and then taste this guacamole
is good, isn't it?

madre, hay un policía en la puerta*

no sir, we haven't seen anyone with that name before
you know how young men are all stationed in Iraq
maybe la migra** is the real migraine

a fifty nation army of the poor and the outcasts
a fifty nation army locking the door for good
a fifty nation army tearing at the seams

vamos ya†, roll your taco and finish it

I spent time in the desert
I still remember my sweet sixteen
life has not changed much

my grandfather was drunk and then he killed himself
and we mourned for a year
dressed in black, locked and blocked

we are no mojados†† eating Doritos
we dwell in borders, the mere transitions
overflown by the transactions

the greater walls are not built
they grow within
and you try tearing them down

lock, block and patrol
and then taste the enchiladas
is good, isn't it?


silvia arroyo (El Paso, TX, 1972)


Editor's notes:

* "Mother, there is a cop at the door"
** Slang for "federal immigration authorities"
† "Come on"
†† Offensive term for a Mexican laborer who enters the U.S. illegally, wetback