Has served to the word poor
My mother’s hoarding of
Old clothes
Indicating she was never letting go
Of the things she never had before
Our rental home
Built near a railroad
Placed in a neighborhood
Of First generation of immigrants
Who grow up with nothing but innovation and aspirations
Oldest child used as a translator
First born daughters, becoming copies of our mothers
Younger brothers and sisters molding to be better than the top three
Group of kids sharing advice and tips
To survive
Playing marbles outside
Borrowing each other toys or movies
All taking turns to ride a bike
Celebrating birthdays with hot Cheetos
Spending our parents change
On cookies and just looking
At the things we all starve to have
Grab each other’s hand
And walk back as pack
The sun sets
And Trails of Work boots
And strawberries stains
that are painted on their hands
Leading us to our roles
Of helping our parents
With all that we can
Eating our rice and beans
our parents putting all their energy to staying up with us
Or doing their best to understand our school materials
And before the sun could rise
We wake up to lock the doors
And be left alone
To fend for ourselves
Because our mothers don’t have the luxury
To being housewife
Nor our father’s have the luxury to allow their wives to be part of their children infant life
When income is a necessity
At the end we watch
Our parents head out to work on fields
That they don’t own
Never reaping of what they sow
We have encountered the hardship
Of having a culture that migrated
And is part of us
Whether we speak English or Spanish
Our parents don’t really talk about
The way they crossed
But it's a given rule
To take a stand when strangers
Tell us to go back
To our main land
Even though I and others were born here
From the opposite side
Of our Mother’s and father’s homeland
It's here in the ghetto,
In the projects
In the barrio
That our collective custom is to
Share what we have
Give what we can
Live among a land
That is built upon
The hard work of our undocumented parents
Aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends
Because, we make things out of the very little
But that’s the culture of survival
And though the goal is to leave
We could never forget
The barrio, for all it made us to be
Barrio is just like a mine
And we are all just diamonds in the rough
And as season change
Our humble homes remain
But hope never fades
To bloom, in this place.
--Raquelin F., Adult