All posts tagged: Farmworker

California Obscura

By AMANDA MEI KIM

In 1976, when I was eight years old, my Korean American father, a produce wholesaler and former farmworker, decided to become a full-time farmer. My Japanese American mother, descended from a long line of farmers and farmworkers, wanted it too. They had spent their childhoods dreaming of a home on the land, so we moved from Los Angeles to a tenant farm thirty-five miles away.

California Obscura
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Sisters

By MIGUEL M. MORALES
with Deb Morales, MyLinda Morales Hutchings, Grace Morales

I grew up in a farmworking family.
No, that’s not accurate—it’s incomplete.
I grew up in a family of farmworking women.
The hands of our sisters, tías, cousins, mothers,
and abuelas have worked the fields, worked to feed us,
worked to raise us, worked to protect and provide for us.
I love my mom but the truth is that my sisters raised me.
Farmwork would not survive without women,
nor would farmworker families.

Sisters
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Re(education)

By LIZBETH LUEVANO

in the coachella valley
children go to school and learn how to internalize silence
girls sit pretty with pigtails wrapped in bubble-ball hair ties
learn how to cast their eyes downward
so that when they ask the class what do you want to be when you grow up?
boys respond, i want to work in the fields like my dad

Re(education)
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El cuerpo avisa

By LUPE MENDEZ

Todo mi maíz se llevó, ni pa’comer me dejó
El Barzón.
—Luis Pérez Meza

Esas tierras del rincón,
I look at them como un buey pando,
feeling the dry earth, crunch under
my boots.                     Es Julio, y si sigue asi,
dirán que es sequía.     I pray it is not.

El cuerpo avisa
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The Weeds

By JULIÁN DAVID BAÑUELOS

“By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return.”
             Genesis 3:19

i.
In many ways we knew we had no choice.
We woke in time to tell the stars goodnight,
Returned to broken homes and heard the fights.

The Weeds
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La Corrida

By AIDEED MEDINA 

Es de madrugada.
 
It is dawn          always dawn
      the sun breaking through
             the breaking of the soil.
 
The faint smell of rain from irrigated dirt
crusts of mud from the crop rows
comes home with my father
on his pants and beneath his fingernails.

La Corrida
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