America, we've met.
I met you first before my father's fathers came to eat up your land with mouths on fire.
You whispered the secrets of your peace and I stood with you as you laid no claim on the ground my fathers came to devour. I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
You told me the names of your children and taught me secrets to survive the deadness of winter. I learned to eat fish and arroz and danced with your brothers. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
You reprimanded me as I stood behind the men and looked like a nervous child at my shoes, but I betrayed you. I fussed with my skirts, or I frowned in arrogance. It will never matter what I DID so much as what I DID NOT.
I met you again America. My wife pleaded I not go to the river by the border. My father said it was not a just war, but I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you. I fired the cannons like a dutiful boy to impress a distant and solemn father. I did not know he would not defend me. I found fury in my hunger and blamed you. I closed my eyes when I lit the cannons. I thought of new boots, and an officers honor. They fed me rancid meat and still I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
When the slaves were tired of their slavery I thought I did right. I told their bosses to ease up and whispered gently to the children with no mothers. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you. It will never matter what I DID but what I DID NOT do.
At the auctions I asked the men to buy the families whole, but could not look you in the eyes America. I kicked the dirt. I hung my head but this is nothing. I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
I met you in the strikers homes. I helped in the kitchens and listened at the town halls to hear the men whose hearts of rage were spewing justice's fire. I tended the children and brought the strikers water but when the police came I ran. I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
When they broke into the flour storage buildings I gathered some in my apron, but when the army came I ran. I ran from the sticks and I ran from the guns. It doesn't not matter what I DID but what I DID NOT do.
We chatted on the bus before you refused to stand. I did not know you were right. I pleaded you to stop and just let it go. I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you. You told me it was not right and I said yes. I nodded and glanced at my tennis shoes. But when the bus stopped to let the police on I got off. I could not look at them take you, I could not. I was hungry and afraid but I betrayed you.
When the wars came and went I sent you letters. I told you I loved you. I said I was proud son. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you. I told you how you wore the badge of justice, the mark of honor. It will never matter what I DID but what I DID NOT do. I watched the other children in the streets, their heads hit pavement, their eyes ablaze. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
We met again America. I was sweating in the afternoon sun in Alabama, picking ticks off of my dog who whined in the summer's intolerable heat. You took me home to meet your husband whose southern drawl left me confused but calm. Your daughters showed me the houses torn by the tornadoes. They held my hand and cried. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
In a pool hall in New Orleans we met again. Your indignation filled the room. You whispered that they blew the levys, and that everyone knew. You always thought you'd beat me, but never did. You took me to the 8th ward, and the earth had eaten up the homes. There was no FEMA here, you said. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
In Florida you fed me oranges from your truck, and spoke softly in spanish. Naranjas, comidas? You looked at your sneakers when you told me that you slept by the bridge, but you drove me all the way to Pensacola and shared cheap tequila you passed through the window to the back. You said they'd pull you over if I sat with you in the front. I remember thinking I had never thought oranges could be so beautiful. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you.
You said your three sons had been sent back, that one had been shot trying to get in and I filled with rage. But I was hungry and afraid and I betrayed you. It will never matter what I DID but what I DID NOT do.
In New York you said I couldn't sit. You said I couldn't stand. You said I couldn't speak, or draw or sing. But you were hungry and afraid and you betrayed me. You pulled me from the crowd and put your boot down on my neck. But you were hungry and afraid and you betrayed me. You turned me over and binded my arms with plastic that cut into my skin. But you were hungry and afraid and you betrayed me. You put me in the van, or truck or bus.
You said it was just a job.
I said you should find a better one.
But you were hungry and afraid and you betrayed us.
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