This poem is for you,
the lady that clutches her purse when I sit down near you,
that looks amazed when I say I have more college degrees than you,
that I speak two languages and was brave enough to leave everything behind to follow my dreams.In each glimpse you give me
I can feel your scorn,
because I am not white like the snow,
because my English is accented.
When you look at me over the shoulder
you lose sight of my dignity,
of me and all my people, who wake up before the sun rises to pick up the fruit you eat in your nice house in the suburbs.
When you look at me like a second class american citizen
because I am puertorican,
you forgot the historic fact,
that your country invaded mine
and my people died in your wars when you were dancing fox trot in Myrtle Beach.
When I look at you and smile,
what I want you to realize is that no matter if I arrive in the Mayflower,
in an airplane,
or if I swim thru the Rio Grande or across the desert or the sea in a canoe.
How I get here does not matter.
The issue is, whether you like it or not,
I am here and I will not leave.