The struggles of the women who married young and were brought by their husbands to America. The cleaning ladies I continue to see from Kindergarten to College, the same tired faces but the different struggles they face. To tell the stories of the kids who grew-up speaking their own language called Spanglish and who are now forced to grow-up in a broken system deeming their downfall, our downfall. Her native love for the diversity that Los Angeles illustrates for her the daily binaries between The Rich and The Poor. The Ghetto and The Gated Communities. The Beat-Up Trucks and The Brand-New Mercedes. The Mexican-American community I know have had many more struggles and only few successes, the greatest injustice that continues to go unheard.
The Gentrified Ghettos
Of all the freeways, the 101 route takes it.
I hate the 101 route.
The Mercedes, the white range rovers,
The gentrified ghettos.
Only the corners at lights do my people stand on, Our space not even the rich could take.
But they try, Because to see us,
For them to know we exist in the same space Is undesirable, we don’t fit the aesthetic.
Like the Graffiti of Aztec gods
On the side of a white wall belonging to A Starbucks in the middle of the Valley. We survive by being
In their homes, in their work, in their world,
We don’t exist. But we do, we belong, they don’t.
Asleep in a car, in the backseat, head on the seatbelt
I know I’m home when we drive cross the tracks. The bumping, bumping, thud
Twist and turn an alarm Waking me to the ghetto. Finally, Home
On the other side of the train-tracks I belong,
I belong right? I’m one of you and one of them. I belong, don’t I?
On the Right-Side of the Train-Tracks.
I remember drinking the milky dew of my childhood through the flowers that grew on a wall.
A green field surrounded by concrete I roamed, And roamed.
Running, giggling, capturing, Red, Yellow, Orange ladybugs And plucking their wings.
The way my wings were plucked from the beginning, But by who,
My Mother, My Father, God?
Yes and No