How do you write the story of people like us? We are the sweaty, angry, more worked, less payed people of America. For us, love and money are hard earned. We are forced to prove our merit.
This myth of upward motion kills many of us. We stay quiet and turn inward. Some of us kill each other for opportunity. Others are the tools of industry, literal parts of a machine. We sway and bend in repetition. Our bodies hold the memories of our vocations.
Believing in a mission statement masks the pain of being nails, the fasteners that maintain the very structure that corrals us. This makes us, hate us. There are others that know this. They recognize this self hatred as a most effective tool. We are dependent on the spoon-fed opportunities of our caretakers.
What if we lived autonomously, no colonial beads in our pockets? Who would we be?
What would our cultures look like? Would we return to our homes and countries of origin? Who are we in our purest form, unclouded, independent of our roles in production? Who am I?
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