The Road : A Blast from the Past
By: Robin Hopper
Subservient and Dejected : Fixity of Purpose
Before the audience begins to read the poem, the title of El Sonavabitche infers Hispanic roots and a tone that the author is highly irritated at someone or something. Gloria Anzaldua’s poem does not make any attempt to camouflage the plight of the migrant worker in America. The workers travel a road full of abuse and meager wages. However, one woman musters a stout heart and the courage of a champion to overcome and fight for herself and her much beloved people. Anzaldua writes the poem in English and Spanish as a nod to the importance and role both languages play for migrant workers.
Imagery is vivid throughout the poem and begins in the first line as described with a “car flowing down a lava of highway” (Gloria Anzaldua 1). Lava is extremely hot, destructive, and has a mind of its own regarding the route it takes and the final destination. Similarly for the migrant worker, a trip down the highway is a voyage that no one really wants to take. Their road trip entails oppressive heat in the summer, emotionally destructive surroundings, an unknown destination, with little or no hope that the deplorable conditions will change. The migrant worker knows all too well they are working and serving to promote some end. In this case, it is a means to provide for their families. It is understood that the workers are useful, but only in an inferior capacity. They know they will not be paid fairly, yet they work, because they must.
One brave women who has documents to work cannot stomach the abuse her co-workers endure. The dejected looks on their faces is nearly too much to bear. She brazenly confronts her boss and requests “two weeks wages” (Anzaldua 121). She is unflinched by his daunting presence. Her boss is cruel and unsympathetic towards the migrant workers. The woman threatens to “make a call to Washington” to expose the fact that many of his employees are working without documents, and as such are considered illegal workers (Anzaldua 152).
With a fixity of purpose, the brave woman stands her ground, prevails, and is paid appropriate wages. Unfortunately, the conflict over pay for documented and undocumented migrant workers continues to rage in America.
Works Cited
Anzaldua, Gloria. “El Sonavabitche.” Norton Anthology of American Literature. 7th ed. Eds. Jerome Klinkowitz and Patricia B. Wallace. Print.
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Gloria Anzaldua
A Road
By Robin Hopper
A road, just a simple word
So many meanings
Is it a path, a lane, a route
Or a multi-lane interstate
Where does this thing known as a road begin
Perhaps at birth with the monster known as sin
As hard as we try it is a struggle to win
But try we must
So how do we each travel our personal road
Find meaning and purpose to help carry our daily load
Where will our road take us, will we leave our abode
But try we must
Life is a mystery, that’s easy to see
Is mere existence enough for a people to be
There is more to life, there has to be
As for my road, God will reveal what HE wants me to see.
"El Sonavabitche" by Gloria Anzaldua
Norton Anthology of American Litearture, 6e E
Car flowing down a lava of highway
Just happened to glance out the window
In time to see brown faces bent backs
Like prehistoric boulders in a field
So common a sight no one
Notices
Blood rushes to my face
Twelve years I'd sat on the memory
The anger scorching me
My throat so tight I can
Barely get the words out.
I got to the farm
In time to hear the shots
Ricochet off barn,
Spit into the sand,
In time to see tall men in uniforms
Thumping fists on doors
Metallic voices yelling Halt!
Their hawk eyes constantly shifting
When I hear the words "Corran muchachos"
I run back to the car, ducking
See the glistening faces, arms outflung
Of the mexicanos running headlong
Through the fields
Kicking up clouds of dirt
See them reach the tree line
Foliage opening, swishing closed behind them
I hear the tussling of bodies, grunts, panting
Squeak of leather squawk of walkie-talkies
Sun reflecting off gunbarrels
The world a blinding light
A great buzzing in my ears
My knees like aspens in the wind
I see that wide cavernous look of the hunted
The look of hares
Thick limp blue-black hair
The bare heads humbly bent
Of those who do not speak
The ember in their eyes extinguished
I lean on the shanty wall of that migrant camp
North of Muncie, Indiana
Wets, a voice says.
I turn ot see a Chicano pushing
The head of his muchachita
Back into the naguas of the mother
A tin plate face down o nthe floor
Tortillas scattered around them
His other hand signals me over.
He too is from el valle de Tejas
I had been his kid's teacher.
I'd come to get the frower
To fill up the sewage ditch near the huts.
Saying it wouldn't do for the children
To play in it.
Smoke from a cooking fire and
Shirtless niños gather around us.
Mojados he says again,
Leaning on his chipped Chevy station wagon
Been here two weeks
About a dozen of them.
The sonavabitche works them
From sunup to dark - 15 hours sometimes.
Como mulas los trabaja
No saben como hacer la perra.
Last Sunday they asked for a day off
Watned to pray and rest,
Write letters to their familiars.
Y sabes lo que hizo el sonavabitche?
He turns away and spits,
Says he has to hold back half their wages
That they'd eaten the other half:
Sack of beans, sack of rice, sack of flour
Frijoleros sí los son but no way
Could they have eaten that many frijoles.
I nod.
Como le dije, son doce - started out 13
Five days packed in the back of a pickup
Boarded up tight
Fast cross-country run no stops
Except to change drivers, to gas up
No food they pissed into their shoes -
Those that had guaraches
Slept sumped against each other
Sabe Dios where they shit.
One smothered to death on the way here.
Miss, you should've seen them when they
Stumbled out.
First thing the sonavabitche did was clamp
A handkerchief over his nose
Then ordered them stripped
Hosed them down himself
In front of everybody.
They hobbled about
Learning to walk all over again.
Flacos con cars de viejos
Aunque la mita'eran jóvenes.
Como le estaba diciendo
Today way payday.
You saw them, la migra came busting in
Waving their pinche pistolas.
Said someone made a call,
What you call it? Anonymous.
Guess who? That sonavabitche, who else?
Done this three times since we've been coming here
Sepa Dios how many times in between.
Wets, free labor, esclavos.
Pobres jijos de la Chingada.
This is the last time we work for him
No matter how fregados we are
He said, shaking his head,
Spitting at the rrfround.
Vámonos, mujerm empaca el mugrero.
He hands me a cup of coffee,
Half of it sugar, half of it milk
My throat so dry I even down the dregs.
It has to be down.
Steeling myself
I take that walk to the big house.
Finally the big man lets me in.
How about a drink? I shake my head.
He looks me over, opens his eyes wide
And smiles, says how sorry he is immigration
Is getting so tough
A poor Mexican can't make a living
And they sure do need the work.
My throat so thick the words stick.
He studies me, then says,
Well, what can I do you for?
I want two weeks wages
Including two Saturdays and Sundays
Minimum wage, 15 hours a day.
I'm more startled than he.
Whoa there, sinorita,
Wets work for whatever you give them
The season hasn't been good.
Besides most are halfway to Mexico by now.
Two weeks wages, I say,
The words swelling in my throat.
Miss uh what did you say your name was?
I fumble for my card.
You can't do this,
I haven't broken no law,
His lidded eyes darken, I step back.
I'm leaving in two minutes and I want cash
The whole amount right here in my purse
When I walk out.
No hoarseness, no trembling.
It startled both of us.
You want me telling every single one
Of your neighbors what you've been doing
All these years? The mayor, too?
Maybe make a call to Washington?
Slitted eyes studied the card again.
They had no cards, no papers.
I'd seen it over and over,
Work them, then turn them in before paying them.
Well, now, he was saying,
I know we can work something out,
A sweet young thang like yourself.
Cash, I said. I didn't know anyone in D.C.
Now I didn't have to.
You want to keep it for yourself?
That it? His eyes were pin pricks.
Sweat money, Mister, blood money,
Not my sweat, but same blood.
Yeah, but who's to say you won't abscond with it?
If I ever hear that you got illegals on your land,
Even a single one, I'm going to come here
In broad daylight and have you
Hung by your balls.
He walks slowly to his desk.
Knees shaking, I count every bill
Taking my time.
