Arnoldo García

Toppenish

Toppenish

was

my home

the rolling hills belonged to no one

yet drunk Indians and Mexicans thought they were theirs

(that is drunk Indians all).

Three syllables

three roots

dirt roads

cold seasons every winter

putting us in our place

My grandmother and grandfather

thought this place better than Texas

where whites lynched Mexicans

Here they strangled us with

hard labor in the fields

Even the Indians had to

change the spelling of their

names, their homeland

so that no one would confuse

Mexicans with Yakamas

that is whites only,

whites

who took their land

and made us work it

made fertile volcanic soil and dust

mesh with our sweats, our

dream of return

only to die paupers

without land, work or home

except in the cemetery.

Toppenish, rolling hills, makes

me dizzy

swallows me up

my soul is tumbleweed

dried up at the emrcy

of northern winds

Toppenish is my hose

my horizon my word

my roots also

buried there.

My hands lie fallow

I hibernate in dreams

of toxic-free seeds

and uneven rows

meant for walking

and not tractors

we grew up walking

migrant comet trails

blazing, cornstalks,

greenbeans, hops,

orchards across the

brown sky of the land

In Toppenish you see everything

and you see what you need to see

You cannot ignore me

or forget me in Toppenish.

I did not choose this land

This land did not choose me

or my people

Now she is mine and I hers

Toppenish is the wind become

mountains, hills, valley,

volcanic paths, migrant tomb,

laughter and bully.