Roots

By Pamela Ibarra

I am a daughter of immigrants. A proud daughter of immigrants.

The so -called problem of America.

My community used as political pawns. Another identity weaponized against me.

They paint harmless narratives to conceal violent ones.

But the only thing my community is addicted to is hard work.

I have never used drugs. Never been an alcoholic. Never gone to jail.

Neither has my family.

Yet we’re treated like criminals by default. Why?

Because we’re not white.

Because we dared to cross an imaginary line

A border that once crossed us.

This land was once ours.

We are not foreign to it.

They say we steal jobs.

They say we’re leeching off the system.

But in the same breath—

They say, “Who else is going to do the jobs we don’t want to do?”

Disgusting. Appalling. Hypocritical.

Stop equating our worth to capitalist values. We are more than labor.

We are more than what we can produce. We deserve dignity and respect.

I know my community is strong.

We forgive. We forget.

But I won’t offer olive branches.

While mine are still ripped from the roots.

I am not just my ancestors wildest dreams. I am also your worst nightmare and I'm here to ruin your sleep. 

By Pamela Ibarra