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
