afternoon story (with a nod toward Ernest Hemingway’s 1st short story)

Hilcias, his mamí and his abuelo stopped outside under the peach trees. 

Dr. Maria came out to say hello. 

All of the migrant workers were covered with dirt and sweat and their sacks were filled with peaches. 

Hilcias whistled a hello to Dr. Maria and grinned. 

He took a peach out of his sack and she looked at it. 

It was red and yellow. 

It was fuzzy and easy to hold in her hand. 

He tossed it to her so she could carry it to the clinic.

That evening, before Hilcias and his mamí and his abuelo went back to their bus, Dr. Maria said, “Hilcias, something is out by the magnolia tree for you.” 

He went out by the steps behind the clinic and picked up a book she had left for him. 

It was The Princeton Field Guide to Whales and Dolphins, with a blue whale on the cover. 

Hilcias opened the book to the page about blue whales and stared at it as he went back toward his family. 

It was hard to walk while he read. 

He tripped over a hoe. 

The grown ups smiled when he appeared with the book.

“Here’s to all the whales we’ve never seen, Hilcias,” said Dr. Maria.

“They’re beautiful,” whistled Hilcias. “Thank you.”

Dr. Maria walked the dusty path with the family back to their bus.

One by one the people began to file out of the fields and orchard. Some carried sacks full of tomatoes, some carried sacks full of peaches that made your body itch if they touched your skin. 

The women entered their yards and began cooking beans and tortillas. 

Dr. Maria sat near the door of the bus with Hilcias, his mamí and his abuelo.

Mrs. Smith came by and passed around large cups of sweet tea to everyone. 

The men got together into small groups, sitting on the ground under the large magnolia trees and drinking their tea. 

The women took their babies off of their backs and the old abuelas swayed them on their laps and made them coo and smile.

“Days have ended like this for migrant workers on the Smith’s farm for as long as I’ve been at the clinic,” said Dr. Maria.

All of the workers would gather together. 

The women would cook until everyone was fed. 

Everyone would talk, laugh and dance.

On Johns Island, most of the migrants were Central American farmers who labored in tomato plants and peach trees and lived in dilapidated sharecropper shacks left over from the days of Jim Crow.

“You’re kind of lucky to live in the bus, with open windows and doors to let in the evening ocean breeze,” said Dr. Maria.

No matter where they lived, this community meal was open to everybody who wanted to come. 

The migrants used friendship as a reason to get together and celebrate life.

- stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

morning poem

look

deeply

into brown eyes,

feel

the sun rise,

know

the wetness and warmth 

of the earth

look

deeply

into blue eyes

feel

waters move,

know

the colors and depth

of the sea

- poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

faces of immigration - Greenville, S.C.

Tomás

In my classroom, there is a little boy from Honduras.

He speaks Spanish — that is the language of his heart — but he is learning English and tries with all his heart to learn new words and strange phrases that will allow him to live in his new world here.

He is 9 years old, with dark hair cut straight across his forehead in a wonderfully crooked line.

He has deep brown eyes the color of a plowed field, eyes that sparkle like starlight at night off a pool of calm water.

He has big dimples that catch teardrops when he laughs until he cries, or when he cries until the sadness in his heart resides.

He has a broad smile that is sometimes mischievous but most times full of joy.

Sometimes I wonder ... what is he thinking as he closes his eyes at the end of the day, or opens them at dawn?

"I hope my new world will embrace me," he thinks tenderly, "and not call me an illegal alien ... and not try to tear me apart from my Aunt ... and not try to tear me apart ... and not place me in the shadows ... and not make me a shadow.

Mamí, can you hear me in the dawn? Will my words reach you over the land, to the valley, between the mountains, to La Esperanza, to Honduras? Help me, mamí. Please. I don't want to be a shadow.

There, I was a human being. I walked beside you, mamí, my hand in yours, over the alfombras, the colored sawdust carpets on the streets, color, beauty, on Viernes Santo, Good Friday, and it was good because I was with you and with people who love me. And I sat beside you, mamí, your arm around me, under the midnight fireworks, after the late-night dinner, on Nochebuena, Christmas Eve, and the colors sparkled in your eyes, and in the colorful light, I loved you, and you loved me, and I was a human being.

Here, I might become a shadow, mamí. Is there no Good Friday on people's feet; is there no Christmas Eve in people's eyes? Are there only people, mamí, blocking the light, with angry faces and hateful words and violent hands, trying to make me a shadow? I am afraid, mamí. Help me. I am afraid of the dark. I don't want to be a shadow."

Is this what he is thinking?

On a Friday, I, his teacher, am about to call out the winner of the 'student of the day,' an award I give to a student who has worked hard and behaved well for the whole, whole day. I wish you could see the hope in his eyes just before I call out the winner, and the happiness when I say, "The winner is ... Tomás."

That look of hope and happiness, the face of Tomás, the life of Tomás, is what I hope you see when you hear the word 'immigration.'

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook

Taki put the palm of her hand on the trunk of the tree.

“When I was an agnaiyaaq, a little girl, my aaka held this hand and walked with me outside of Point Hope," she said, "and talked with me about the plants around us, the ones animals can and cannot eat, the ones people can and cannot eat, the ones animals and people can use for medicine.

This, Hilcias, is called the Balm of Gilead tree."

Hilcias looked closely at the buds on the lower branches of the tree and breathed deeply the sweet smell of the resin.

He whistled for the wonder of it all.

"Balm of Gilead resin can soothe a cough or keep a small wound or cut or scrape from getting infected.

Maybe it could help a mute boy from El Salvador talk, huh?

Just kidding.

The leaves are shaped like a heart. They remind us that the heart is the place where we learn to share, cooperate, take responsibility, avoid conflict and respect others.

Aaka told me, she said, 'Taki, these are the values of The People. They keep hearts beating and life living in these frozen, Arctic lands.'"

Taki closed her eyes.

She put her ear on the smooth, light brown bark of the tree.

"I hear the tree," she whispered. "It is saying, 'Take only what you need from nature. Use what you have to help others. Always speak your own language.'"

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

feet

feet

are

calloused

and so cracked

like rocks in plowed ground

she walks over the land barefooted

as her abuelo turns the earth with donkey and plow

she has the feet of her abuelo, for she walks beside him down the long row of beans

her abuelo walks down the rows until his feet are broken and bent by genuflecting to land or the land owner

when her feet are in the soil, it is as if they are the land, as if they hold the secrets of the earth, the mystery of seed, dirt, water

becoming a bean in a pod, a kernel on an ear of corn, a red tomato

her heart is in her feet, in the land, the mystery

feet speak, "Aqui estoy," "I'm here"

feet are signs to us

"I'm human"

"I'm

here"

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

small space

we

stand

closely

side by side

I reach out for you

and take your hand inside of mine

our fingers intertwine and our palms make a small space

this space is warm in the deep snow that covers the ground of Point Hope

is warm against the icy wind that blows off the rocking waters of the Chukchi Sea

“life is in these small spaces between us,” I whisper

we stand quietly hand in hand

with the small space, and

then we smile

holding

small 

space

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2020

writing the human element

I hope to be a writer who writes so sharp people can make out faces. 

I hope to be a writer who writes not faceless strangers but daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, cousins and friends.

I hope to be a writer who writes the human element.

Tomás

In my classroom, there is a little boy from Honduras. 

He speaks Spanish — that is the language of his heart — but he is learning English and tries with all his heart to learn new words and strange phrases that will allow him to live in his new world here. 

He is 9 years old, with dark hair cut straight across his forehead in a wonderfully crooked line. 

He has deep brown eyes the color of a plowed field, eyes that sparkle like starlight at night off a pool of calm water. 

He has big dimples that catch teardrops when he laughs until he cries, or when he cries until the sadness in his heart resides. 

He has a broad smile that is sometimes mischievous but most times full of joy.

Sometimes I wonder ... what is he thinking as he closes his eyes at the end of the day, or opens them at dawn?

"I hope my new world will embrace me," he thinks tenderly, "and not call me an illegal alien ... and not try to tear me apart from my Aunt ... and not try to tear me apart ... and not place me in the shadows ... and not make me a shadow.

Mamí, can you hear me in the dawn? Will my words reach you over the land, to the valley, between the mountains, to La Esperanza, to Honduras? Help me, mamí. Please. I don't want to be a shadow.

There, I was a human being. I walked beside you, mamí, my hand in yours, over the alfombras, the colored sawdust carpets on the streets, color, beauty, on Viernes Santo, Good Friday, and it was good because I was with you and with people who love me. And I sat beside you, mamí, your arm around me, under the midnight fireworks, after the late-night dinner, on Nochebuena, Christmas Eve, and the colors sparkled in your eyes, and in the colorful light, I loved you, and you loved me, and I was a human being.

Here, I might become a shadow, mamí. Is there no Good Friday on people's feet; is there no Christmas Eve in people's eyes? Are there only people, mamí, blocking the light, with angry faces and hateful words and violent hands, trying to make me a shadow? I am afraid, mamí. Help me. I am afraid of the dark. I don't want to be a shadow."

Is this what he is thinking?

Then I don't have to wonder, for I know this is happening as he lives his life day by day.

A kind woman stands at the door of a clothing room. She looks at him with kind, brown eyes and smiles at him with a bright, warm smile. 

"Hola, mi pequeño amigo," she says. 

She shows his aunt a room full of clothes, beautiful clothes, for children of all shapes and sizes. He picks out a shirt with a picture of a soccer ball on it, a pair of jeans, a pair of soccer cleats, and a warm jacket — none of them brand new, but all of them new to him. 

They are clothes his family cannot afford to buy at a store. Yet here, they can pay a little money to help another family with their needs and take home clothes they need for him. 

He is so happy. 

"I wonder," the woman asks as he and his aunt say, 'Adios,' if I can write down anything you would like for me to pray about for you? This place is more than just clothes. It is a place to show love." 

She listens to his aunt and writes down their struggles and their dreams, and sees him, and knows he is not a shadow.

The guidance counselor at his school calls him to her office at the end of the day. 

"Here is a backpack, Tomás. It is filled with food that your family can use over the weekend. It is from a group called Mission Backpack. They want to make sure you have enough to eat before you come back to school on Monday."

How could she know that sometimes his family runs out of groceries by the end of the week? 

How could she know that they have only rice and beans ... that his aunt cooks them in the morning and they eat them for breakfast, lunch, and supper ... that he closes his eyes at night and dreams of meat ... that he dreams of something sweet ... that he dreams of food? 

How could she know? 

She knows, and writes down his name for Mission Backpack, and sees him, with caring people sees him, and knows he is not a shadow.

On a Friday, I, his teacher, am about to call out the winner of the 'student of the day,' an award I give to a student who has worked hard and behaved well for the whole, whole day. I wish you could see the hope in his eyes just before I call out the winner, and the happiness when I say, "The winner is ... Tomás."

That look of hope and happiness, the face of Tomás, the life of Tomás, is what I hope you see when you hear the word 'immigration.'