here is a poem i wrote for US History talking about the labor Cesar Chavez, his men, and the manongs, my grandfather's labor, and my parents and other immigrant's stories on labor right now during this pandemic.
To the nation built upon bodies
by Jennine Pono
Are your grapes sweet?
Are they big and ripe, bursting with juice and flavor
Are they dripping with the hard work of
“Foreigners”,
“semi-barbarians”,
“selfless”,
“dirty”
Do they give you the energy taken
from the men who spent sleepless nights
In abandoned boxcars, tents, shacks,
Outside, next to the pesticides, like bugs
To grow your food to grow you
Were your tables bountiful with the produce
Of heatstroke
Of racial slurs
Of earning to barely get by
Of your full stomach
Of “quick fortunes in the United States”
When they were cheated for your economy
To the plantation owner who sought after latinos and filipinos because
They are suited to “stoop labor”
They are young and flexible
They are perfect tools for growth,
Growth in your wallets, in your world
Who were disposable
Who you exposed to toxins
So you gain blood soaked land
And produce sweet with their sweat and tears
To the man who slept in
one of the twelve houses my grandpa built by himself
How was the shelter over your head
How were my grandparents who tended to you
How were my grandparents who tended to you
How were you feeling when you slapped them
And called them molesters
To the owner who said my grandpa is
Uneducated
Unworthy
Unable
When my grandpa fixed your
Heaters
Rooms
Homes
With only 5 years of education
To not only build a home for his patients
But build a home for his future generations
To the people that have called my mother:
Chink
virus spreader,
diseased
My mother who has has changed your bed pan,
Checked your vitals,
Fed you food
Sustained your life
Who has kept you running, supporting your life by risking hers
To the patient that:
Told my aunt to leave
the minute she stepped out
to cough for 4 seconds
although she:
left her 9 year old son alone at home
To drive an hour to take care of you
To risk her husband, her son, and family to heal you
So that your family can continue to live in comfort she is deprived of
To the blue collar job workers who:
Pick up the used gloves and masks
Disinfect our public spaces
Purify our streets so we can continue
And yet when they are positive they
Suffer the most
Lack the funds to support themselves
Lack the resources to live
While this country sits on their labor in comfort
To my father who
I haven’t seen for months
Works 12 hours, 10 days a week
A thousand eight hundred and sixty one miles away
Cries and prays every night for those who die alone
Although his daughters
Sleep alone every night
In the house that he built
Who weep for him and with him
To the black nurse
Who was told in the store
“Its people like you
“You people are the reason”
“You're the cause of our pain and suffering”
When she’s building a future of
3,000 nurses
Who will save more
Who will be the people that help this country breathe
To the nation built upon bodies:
With your stomach filled by the Manongs and La Causa
With my grandfather's hands, rough from your lies
With my mother’s chinky eyes that see your life and death
With my aunt’s lungs that were pushed away because you were afraid
With my fathers feet that have traveled 1,861 miles to take care of you
You take them, and you go and claim each one of them
But do not take my voice too
