The woman farm worker

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The woman farm worker
    sister
        wife
           mother, fighter
Hands and face
    brown and firm—
like clay hardened in the sun
Remember her as a soldier
     honor her in her fight. . .
The farm worker’s days were long
      in fields
scorched by the heat
And if the dust
     didn’t choke her
then the lack of water would
Labor bought cheap
Racism, racism . . .
     just part of the job
Earlier this decade
    the grapes rotted on
         the vines and
lettuce wilted in the fields
Sacrificing to make the union real
     the farm workers went on strike.
The woman farm worker
     spent those days
          sweating while picketing
          leafleting while
          gathering support
Working hard
     to make the union real
     to gain dignity in the fields
So her labor
     wouldn’t be cheap
And her family wouldn’t starve
SHE STOOD FIRM
     even when
The police joined ranks
     with the growers
     and the scabs
Moving from racist jeers
     to physical attacks
The cries of “huelga”
     mingled with cries of pain
The growers, police
     and their scabs
Held up the American flag
     And the flag
     became a collage of
RED, WHITE and BLUE
Red,
     with blood
which splattered thru the fields
     wetting the Earth
staining the grapes
White
     the color of the striker’s face
as she paled before
     the nightmare of
     children sprayed with mace
          and
the Blue tinge
     of a farm worker’s skin
     as a billy club
          forced
against his throat denied him air
Arrested like criminals—
Threatened with death—
When the threats became real
When strikers began to die
The farm worker woman
     Unleashed her tears . . .
Not tears of sadness
     not tears of fear
BUT TEARS OF RAGE
          Her tears
were the moisture
which solidified
her strength
The picket sign
          became
her backbone
     It made her strong
and enabled her to taste
     sweet victory
When her union dream became real
The woman farm worker
    sisters
         wife
             mothers, fighters
Hands and face
     browned and firm
like clay
     hardened in the sun . . .
                                          — Luna