“Son nuestros. Nuestra familia. Todo lo que somos.”
They are ours. Our family. Our everything.
His jaw tightens as he continues to pat his chest now, as if visibly showing the crowd his heart lives within these words.
“Y luego nos dicen que tengamos paciencia.”
And then they tell us to be patient.
A few bitter laughs ripple through the group.
“Que esperemos nuestro turno.”
To wait our turn.
He shakes his head.
“¿Qué turno?”
What turn?
That lands. For Julio. For each one of them. It breathes with feeling as the seconds tick past.
“Trabajamos sus campos.”
We work the fields.
“Levantamos sus ciudades.”
We build their cities.
“Construimos sus carreteras.”
We build their roads.
“Sus casas.”
Their homes.
“Y mucho más. Alimentamos, proveemos y compartimos nuestra cultura con ellos sin reservas. Y para algunos… la vida que disfrutan se ha construido sobre nuestras espaldas.”
And so much more. We feed and provide and share our culture openly with them. For some…the sweet life they live has been made off our backs.
“Y pagamos… cumplimos… bajamos la cabeza… obedecemos… y aun así…”
And we pay… we comply… we cower… we obey…and still…
He lets the sentence fall off.
Doesn’t finish it.
Doesn’t need to.
“Nos dan la espalda.”
They turn us away.
Silence holds for a beat.
