Dreamers

Dreamers

By: Arion Hart

In America, California es el

Estado donde ‘se cumplen tus suenos’

‘Where your dreams come true.’

In my suenos there is no racism

There is no skin color

There are people.

When you look at my you only see color.

You see 5’3” light skinned red hair.

You see white, black, brown, and yellow.

I don’t want you too look at me and say,

“White!”

Look at me and say, “Alondra.”

When I tell you, “I’m Mexican.”

Don’t think, “Dirty wetback.”

Think, “Strength.” Because you don’t know

How hard it is for My people to get here.

You don’t know how much they have too abandon.

 

When I tell you, I speak Spanish,

Don’t assume I learned it in high school,

Where they teach you shit, and call it “proper” Spanish.

“Como si el espanol que yo hablo es corriente y inapropiado.

Por que el espanol es mi primer lengua y el ingles

Es Segundo.”

Spanish is my first tounge and English is second.

When you tell a Hispanic,

Speak English, this is America.

I hope you know Mexico is part of America.

When you call me a ‘Beaner’

Remember that it is my culture that feeds you.

We are the hands that plant the seeds for you,

So that you can stuff your sinful mouths with our labors.

 

We live in a society where being different is

Shameful.

Where being Mexican means drop-outs

Means pregnancy, means cholos, means narcotraficantes.

Where racist jokes have become

Where alienation and segregation have begun too rise

From their graves.

Back to the times where the paliduchos stole the land

From My people.

Back too when stealing was finding.

Genocides were insecticides

And We were the vermin.

 

My mother tells me, “Mija nunca olvides de donde vienes,

Nunca olvides tu cultura.”

Never forget where you come from,

Never forget your culture.

Because I come from a white Mexican women

And a chocolate dipped Mexican man.

I come from a mother and father,

From Maria and Fransico.

My blood says Mexican.

My culture says Freedom

America says, “Illegal Immigrant.”

My people come here with nothing up their sleeves

But the border patrol beats them as if they had guns up their sleeves

When all they have is hope.

My people fought to create the 'Dream Act'

But dreams are being shattered left on the freeways of broken dreams.

Spirits are being subdued left in front of Home Depot.

Tongues are being disjointed left on the doorsteps in front of school.

In America English is your tongue.

In America California es el estado donde se cumplen los suenos.

Where your dreams come true.

In my suenos there is no racism.

There is no skin color.

There are people.

Just people.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741