by Samara Barrett
The nervous mother yells out in anguish, “¡Mija!”
Those words perhaps more important than any she had ever spoken.
Her child is ripped away from her grasps as she travels into the country that I call mine.
Maybe she does this because I possess the things she risks her family’s life for:
Safety, security, a fresh start, or something more.
Yet all I did differently was be born here before.
Though I wouldn’t say it’s right, I argue for our humanity.
When did we lose sight of others and become consumed by our own vanity?
I was born here,
And she was born there,
but they tell me there is more that separates us than that.
Her people are a threat, but when Tommy yells the n word they tell us not to fret.
I don’t mean to get political, but I ask for some reciprocal.
“They can’t come here!” cause we said so, said so, said so.
“Jumping through hoops gets tiring”, they say, they say, they say.
Though I wouldn’t say it’s right, why do we snuff out the light
Between child and mother, sister and brother?
The least we can do is acknowledge another,
Be so bold as to not bar the babies from the being that made them.
Now tell me, Which is of greater possession?
My American pride or a mother’s child pried.
Samara Barret is a lover of all the stories and insights that words work to tell, with far too many other interests in life. Reading, writing, listening to music, and listening to people is where she most feels herself.