(In my humble opinion, this is some of the best writing I can write. It grows out of a deep love in my corazón for my students and their families from Mexico, Central America and South America. It nurtures my work as a freedom fighter for them. I hope you find it meaningful)
“Remember Nieto.
I’m a farmer, not a barber.”
Hilcias looked into his abuelo’s eyes.
They were farmer’s eyes, brown the color of a late winter field turned over by donkey and plow; tired from years of looking for one more ripe peach in a tree and one more red tomato on a vine; kind because they were migrant worker eyes and could look into the lives of people and see all that is human to see.
Then he looked at himself in the small, cracked mirror in his abuelo’s big, calloused hands.
His black hair was cut in a crooked line across his forehead.
There were uneven gaps above his floppy ears.
His own brown eyes sparkled like starlight off a mountain stream on a dark, El Salvadoran night.
“Yep, you’re definitely a farmer and not a barber,” he giggled.
But I love you.
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