Flying Note

When I was eight years old
I was too young to be told

Too young to understand

That I was not wanted in this land.
A note carrying rock

From somewhere along our block

Came crashing through our front room window.

It landed on the floor.

I ran to the door

Hoping that I could score

A view of who had thrown it.

No one was there

As I stood and stared

Up and down our block.

I came back in and picked up the rock

And tried very hard to take stock

Of what had just happened.

I read the words on the note

“Get back on your boat.

Go back to where you came from.

You fucking wetbacks aren’t welcome.”
I didn’t know that it meant

Someone on our block was hell bent

To force us to move away

Right now! Not on some future day.

Tears flowed down my mother’s face

As she wrapped me in her protective embrace.

“They do not want us living here.

We have nothing for them to fear?
We are just like them. Don’t they know?

Where do they think that we will go?

We can’t just pack our bags and leave.

O Dios Mio! It’s hard to believe

That people, who we don’t know,

Could throw this rock to make us go.”

My mother stood up and glared

At the note from one who dared.

“We are going stay right here.

We won’t let racism or unfounded fear

Chase us away from our rightful home.

We’ll stand right here and be strong

Because this is where we belong.”