Faces all around, feet moving, still. Seen
and unseen.
Walking single file in the dark journey north.
A journey? What to call the movement
away from violence, hunger, exploitation.
What other options?
Quiero un futuro mejor, eso quiero
pa’ mis hijas.
How can so many souls be so silent?
Moving in silence, sitting in silence.
Whispers. Dark clothing. A
prelude to the life ahead
in this ‘land of the free’ – washing our dishes,
building our homes, tending our gardens, picking
our food – invisible, unacknowledged.
Tanto sufrimiento.
Tanto corazón.

What tricks must one play on oneself to
be able to take the next step?
This is for my children, for a better future,
for escape from what was.
Tanto sacrifício.
Tragedy and beauty, courage and evil,
Woven into a tangled strand of
what?

What can I possibly say in the face of this?
So many tears I have witnessed, helpless.
Strong men and women, with more courage
than I have ever been called upon to possess.
Sobbing, broken.
Francisco, padre de dos hijitas, sitting on a cot
in his hawaiian shirt, shoulders hunched, the
tears falling.
La vida es duro.
Tan duro.
Entiendo, entiendo – but how can I understand
any of it, with my plane ticket and my college
degree and my passport.

Anger, intense anger, which I may or may not
have the right to feel, at this system,
at my own ciudadanos, brothers and sisters,
who strip others of their dignity,
forcing them to this.
Oaxaca es hermosa, pero no hay dinero.
Every time I look at Francisco’s
face, I want to cry.

Fantasies, dreams of what I would do
if it wasn’t like this. Come, let me
wash your feet and cook for you and
make you a soft bed in a cool, shady
place where you can rest and dream,
sin pensar en el camino,
el camino tan duro.
And the horrors that have passed.
Cactus spines and helicopters.
Banditos who take everything you have
and more.
What does a woman feel before undertaking
this nightmare?
Quiero un futuro mejor pa’ mis
hijas, por eso lo hago.
As the tears fall.