by Renato Rosaldo

    We celebrate their days，

    eat hot dogs， love baseball，

    but they say we were born to weed，

    change diapers， carry crates in the grey of dawn

    while they sleep. Awake， they look at us without seeing.

    We see ourselves clearly， know ourselves

    precisely， without parades and picnics.

    To survive， we must.

    I'm one of the invisible living among the notable.

    Day after day I hear doors shut，

    stumble over slurs， and bump into the man

    who nods yes， yes， but isn't listening.