Scared in Ohio

And scabs starred from a dump truck with Honduras on their mind, scared from the men with big signs on sticks and screams coming from their mouths -- but they weren't scared enough to take what they can from the streets and the pockets of organized workers working to get an ounce of dignity; a photo daddy's old boss has hung to this day in his office, he told me before I understood that a scab was not something that grew over a cut. 

And it gets so hard to breathe these days down by the ports where other youngsters with asthma weeze over their parents' Mexican dialect who sit and question why the drivers vomit in line to the ships under a cloud of diesel bellowing from rigs made in the 1970s, long before I was born, my teacher told us.  

And there is little reason why daddy's hands got soft and the calluses all left to browner hands of American Dreamers while his own turned to a foreclosed nightmare in Ohio buttering one slice of toast today to save. I know now what foreclosure means. 

And though Grandpa drove a big blue Caddi and even daddy ran the big Buick with the leather seats, mama now needs to take a train and two buses to two jobs while daddy hits the books ... "First time in 27 years since I'd been a student," he tells us. "But I have to learn something someone needs in the United States." We sold the Caddi last week and daddy has a bike, like me. 

And though in Colombia they shoot at union leaders, like the man daddy used to have coffee with all time, the presidential candidate went to support what he calls "free trade." And though I am young and unable to understand it all ... what is so free about the trade if my daddy is crying everyday, my house is owned by the bank and my mama is too tired to read to me at night?

And I wonder if those who are old enough to vote will vote this year to help me and my family. I can only start working in four years and until then I rely on my daddy and mama; I am scared in Ohio.