On clear days,                                   On clear days,
I see a farm                                      I see the farm
deep in the valley.                             deep in the valley.
A family works there everyday.    
They pick fruit.
                                                      We work hard.
Stealing the jobs others deserve.
                                                      Only taking the jobs
                                                      No one else wants.
Daddy says
they steal our money.
                                                      Papá makes only
                                                      a couple cents

                                                      for every few

                                                      pounds of fruit we pick:
                                                      enough to buy food,
                                                      do our laundry,
                                                      but not much else.
They take over the schools.
                                                      I hardly go to school.
                                                      I stay at home,
                                                      to help my parents
                                                      with the harvest.
                                                      But for the few months
                                                      I have at school,
                                                      I work hard.
They are stupid.                                I am smart.
Is what Daddy tells me.
They are people of color:
They are called Hispanics.                  We are called Hispanics.
They are not white.                           We are white.
                                                     My skin may be darker,
                                                     But Papá,
                                                     who is from Spain,
                                                     says in Spain he was                                                          white.
                                                     Here he is Hispanic.
What is Hispanic?                             What is Hispanic?

I hear of Mexican immigrants,
and of people coming from
South America
and Spain.
They are all different,                       We are all different,
yet they are all Hispanics.                 yet we are all Hispanics.
I do not understand why,
but the grownups say it with such confidence,
that it must be true.

I wonder now,
about that benevolent brown boy,
who sits in the back of the classroom,
in the winter months.                       In the winter months,
                                                    I sit in the back of the                                                         class.
We used to be friends...        
                                                    I used to have a friend.
But then I realized                           But then I realized
we aren’t the same                          we aren’t the same
I used to think he was white,             I used to think I was                                                           white,
like me.                                         like her.
Until my Daddy                               Until her Papá
told me otherwise.                           told me otherwise.
                                                    A thieving slave,
                                                    he called me.
I had never seen a boy cry,
until then.
He ran home.
                                                    I ran,
                                                    to the weeping
                                                    rundown shack,
                                                    where I lived.
                                                    With its overgrown ivy
                                                    and stubborn mossy                                                           roof.
                                                    and the smell of mold,
                                                    beneath the beds.
I asked my father
why-
why he would call                            Why would he call
him such names.                             me such names.
Daddy said
he is no better than a black person,
and should be treated as such.
I don’t see
how he is any different from me,
but I could never tell Daddy that.
                                                   I do not know why
                                                  her Papá does not like me.
                                                   I am not illegal.
                                                   My family was lucky.
                                                 We have a temporary visa.
                                                   I have every right
                                               as much of a right as anyone
                                                   to be here.
                                                   We can stay,
                                                   for up to three years,
                                                   until we must go home,
                                                   back to Mexico.

I heard he’s leaving soon,
from the farmer his family works for.
He won’t talk to me-
face to face.
                                                 We have a few months left,
                                                   less if I get caught,
                                                   for working,
                                                  instead of going to school.
I wish that things                            I wish that things
weren't this way                             weren’t this way.
Why couldn’t we                             Why couldn’t we
have been friends?                         have been friends?

Today, police showed up,                 Today, police showed up,
at the farm.                                  at the farm           

                                               where my family and I work.
                                                  I was caught,
                                                  for working.
They have to go back                     I have to go back
to Mexico.                                    to Mexico.
They were given                           We were given
only a few days to pack.                only a few days to pack,
                                              or else Papá would be thrown
                                                  in jail.

On their last night,                        On our last night,
I payed them a visit.                     She payed us a visit.
His brown hair                             Her brown hair
was messy,                                 was messy,
his brown eyes                             her brown eyes
were tired.                                  were tired.
I gave him a yearbook.                 She gave me a yearbook.
He never stayed in school
long enough to get one.
I drew his picture,                        She drew my picture,
on the same page                        on the same page
mine was on.                               hers was on.
I didn’t know his last name,
so I wrote mine below his portrait.
                                                And the last thing she said
                                                 was goodbye,
                                                 my brother.