The Alley

Strolling the alley
Of a run down working-class
Black, Latino and poor white
Neighborhood in DeKalb
I felt the air
Of an approaching springtime
A breeze gently swirled
Dead brown leaves that
Had been buried for weeks
Under blankets of snow

A green and purple shoot
Pushing through the warming
Ground
Reminded me
Of past Lenten seasons
Anticipation of Easter
Priests in purple vestments
The irises I would gift Abuelita
As her “flores favoritas”
And the aroma of baking
Bread pudding she called
“Capirotada”

Turning the corner
A brown family walked by
We all approached downtown
And the old railroad crossing
And then I wondered
How many changes had come
And gone in this little town
And old row of houses
New about a hundred years ago
How many trains had passed
Through these prairies
And the farms and the cornfields
Of northern Illinois
When did the first Mexicanos arrive
With their families to pick
The crops for the white farmers
And how did they end up
My neighbors in this little row
Of humble casitas near
The railroad tracks?
When did la frontera
Move so far north
To Chicagolands
Bringing with it
Men, women and children
Who walk by
Hablando español
Averting the gaze of an assimilated
Or anglicized eye?
How do they make barrio
And comunidad
And survive the icy
Cold whiteness of these
Midwestern plains?

E.Arriola, DeKalb, IL 3/18/02