Language = POWER…

…Our words = Our POWER

How do we CHOOSE to fight?

7th Grade English Language Arts

RESISTANCE THROUGH POETRY

Name:

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

I Am Not My Hair by India.Arie

Little girl with the press and curlAge eight I got a Jheri curl

Thirteen I got a relaxerI was a source of so much laughter

At fifteen when it all broke offEighteen and went all natural

February two thousand and twoI went and did

What I had to doBecause it was time to change my lifeTo become the women that I am inside

Ninety-seven dreadlock all goneI looked in the mirror

For the first time and saw that hey....

I am not my hairI am not this skin

I am not your expectations no noI am not my hairI am not this skin

I am a soul that lives within

Good hair means curls and wavesBad hair means you look like a slave

At the turn of the centuryIts time for us to redefine who we be

You can shave it offLike a South African beauty

Or get in on lockLike Bob Marley

You can rock it straightLike Oprah Winfrey

If its not what's on your headIts what's underneath and say hey…

Does the way I wear my hair make me a better person?

Does the way I wear my hair make me a better friend?

Does the way I wear my hair determine my integrity?

I am expressing my creativity.

Breast Cancer and ChemotherapyTook away her crown and glory

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is the THEME of India Arie’s song, “I Am Not My Hair?”

2. What do you think hair symbolizes for India Arie?

3. What do you think skin symbolizes for India?

4. Define Integrity.5. What did India have to do

before she came to her understanding about her hair?

6. What is “her crown and glory” in the last stanza?

India.Arie, singer-songwriter, is a Grammy-award winning artist. She wrote “I Am Not My Hair” as a message to her fans that women should not be defined by their looks. She explained that, “"As a Black American woman, a lot of your integrity is dictated by how you wear your hair," she explains. "The concept for the song was sparked when I decided to cut my locks, and all the different attitudes people had about it. This is my hair - and it's my life. I'll choose how I express myself."

She promised God if she was to surviveShe would enjoy everyday of her life ooh

On national televisionHer diamond eyes are sparkling

Bald headed like a full moon shiningSinging out to the whole wide world

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Power by Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoricis beingready to killyourselfinstead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot woundsand a dead child dragging his shattered blackface off the edge of my sleepblood from his punctured cheeks and shoulderschurns at the imagined taste whilemy mouth splits into dry lipswithout loyalty or reasonthirsting for the wetness of his bloodas it sinks into the whitenessof the desert where I am lostwithout imagery or magictrying to make power out of hatred and destructiontrying to heal my dying son with kissesonly the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

The policeman who shot down a 10-year-old in Queensstood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish bloodand a voice said "Die" andthere are tapes to prove that. At his trialthis policeman and in his own defense"I didn’t notice the size or nothing elseonly the color." andthere are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37-year-old white man with 13 years of police forcinghas been set freeby 11 white men who said they were satisfiedjustice had been doneand one black man who said"They convinced me" meaningthey had dragged her 4’10" black woman’s frameover the hot coals of four centuries of white male approvaluntil she let go the first real power she ever hadand lined her own womb with cementto make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction within me.But unless I learn to usethe difference between poetry and rhetoricmy power too will run corrupt as poisonous moldor lie limp and useless as an unconnected wireand one day I will take my teenaged plugand connect it to the nearest socketraping an 85-year-old white womanwho is somebody’s motherand as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her beda greek chorus will be singing in 3⁄4 time"Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Audre Lorde, Caribbean American poet, writer, and activist, was a self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet.” Born in New York City, Lorde writes primarily about conflicts in difference and multiculturalism. Lorde challenged feminism to include the experiences of women of color, confronting racism within the primarily white movement.

Questions to Consider:

1. Name two different places the events in the poem take place.

2. What is the mood of this poem? Support your answer with details from the poem.

3. Define rhetoric.4. Why is the poem titled “Power”?5. What do the following lines symbolize:

“corrupt as poisonous mold/ or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire”

6. What is one reason that “desert” is an effective setting to evoke?

7. What does the 37-year old white policeman symbolize?

MOTHER TO SON by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,And splinters,

And boards torn up,And places with no carpet on the floor

- - - Bare.

But all the timeI'se been a - climbin' onAnd reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.Don't you set down on the steps'Cause you find it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now - - -For I'se still goin' honey,

I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Langston Hughes (1902 – 1967) was a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance, a cultural movement that challenged racism through literature, art, and music. His poems, plays, and stories frequently focused on the African American experience, particularly on the struggles and feelings of individuals.

Questions to Consider:

1. Draw this poem as it is represented to you.2. What message is the mother trying to get across to her son?3. What does the crystal stair represent?

I'm Mexican, Chicana, y Tejana by Marybel Louise Ortega

I'm all of the above,I worship Dios and pray to the Virgen,

I live my life as everyone should,Todos they put us down because we are brown,

Y no nos dejan en pas,They say we should stay in the fields,

Like all we do is piscar vegetables,Working in the fields should make us proud,We work hard not to let out familias down,Our traditions we keep to show our culture,and our familias we raise to be respectful,

Our familias stick together like glue,and never turn their backs on each other,

Our origins are from great people,Los indigenos son nuestros ancestors,

Ellos eran fuertos and smart,They made us who we are,

Though we originate from Mexico,Todavia somos Americans,

They won't take away our lives and the land we got,Eso no se vale we’re not different by a lot,

We are important to this land,People no pueden ver nuestra importancia because they chose not to,

We show them everyday we are strong,Y they think que nos pueden controlar,

The battle has surely ended,Pero la guerra is about to start,

We won't stop till we’re the ones with the freedom and the rights,Y no nos paramos till we win this fight,I'ma tell you now that I won't give up,

and we won't let our lives get all messed-up,Me and my familia are proud to be Mexican,

because being who I really am means I know I can.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Questions to consider:

1. Why does this author choose to use Spanish and English together in this poem?2. What are some themes of this poem? 3. What does the author mean by “because being who I really am means I know I can.”4. Is it possible to have more than one identity? The author is Mexican, Chicana, and

Tejana. What identities are you?

Untitled by Sanjana Bijlani

Performed: February 23, 2012 at CalSLAM Grand Slam Finals **CalSLAM is the UC Berkeley spoken word poetry organization, and the Grand Slam Finals were to decide which 5 members moved on to CUPSI, the College Union Poetry Slam Invitational, a national college competition.

There is an unspoken rule that hung heavy In the hallways of my high school,Weighing down our heads, As we passed each other again and again.

We looked like different kinds of same,Our hands were likened to coffee cups our friends carriedBrimming with chai teas, ginger mochas, and caramel lattes,The saccharine stab of untold stories still wedged in our memories,We released our necks to hang like broken toy soldiers,Only raising them, when the final bell sounded.We walked by each other, passing for forgotten friends,Or maybe just lost brothers and sisters.

Released into the parking lot like songbirdsThe radios came alive in the afternoon sun,With songs that never told our stories,But had words that sounded more honestThan any I ever said.

You see, I walked through hallways,I folded my stories into letters I stored in my voice box,Placed it on top of a moving train,The one I used to take to get to my grandparents’ house,The one that pulses through my veins Asking me when I’ll catch the next one home,Back to the beginning,So I may understand how I got so lost.

I came here with a smile on my face,With a smile on my face, an embrace in arms, trying to forgetThat I cried at the end of a dance whenA boy wouldn’t come near me,Afraid of my color running outside the lines,Staining the white fences of his arms held away from me.

I came here thinking something would change,But I still roam around in circles,Hoping to find someone who will look at me,Burning coals in back of their eyes,Whispers escaping their lips, like the last breath of fire,They know the sound of shame ringing every time I say my name.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

When I introduce myself,I remember the way my parentsUsed to sing me to sleep with melodies falling from their teeth,Like honey and promises, my mother stayed up to watchThe night give rise to a girl,Every day, believing in sweetness and trust,That this world is hers.

It doesn’t belong to me,Not when I keep my head hung low,My voice a little lower,It took me seven years to find the pieces of the mirrorI broke, when I first changed my nameTo fit tongues slithering to spit out seven lettersNever second-guessing if this is the way they fit together.

We were supposed to find each otherIn cafeteria crowds, see the same lonelinessIn mashed potatoes that don’t have enough spice,Laugh at the way our voices slow down where others’ speed up,We grow tired of running from the soundsOf those who came before us.

But there is no familiarity in the way You pour the tea in your hands over mine, Waiting to see if it will darken my skin,Because my parents loved across state lines,Found each other in a crowded classroom,Stayed together because they loved in a world of rainbows,They chose colors like love, fear, loss, Held together with hope and a light breeze.

On those nights I tried to wash away your inquisition of my skin,I heard my grandmother’s voice sparking throughTelephone lines that run alongside the trains in my veins,The complexion of love is always changing.

I have been waiting to see what that that looks like,One day I hope to look upAnd see you standing there, long after the final bell sounds.Come talk to me, together we can rememberWhat we have always known.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does Bijlani write?2. Who is this poem intended for?3. What is the “unspoken” rule in the first stanza?

Sanjana Bijlani is a sophomore studying English and French at UC Berkeley, where she writes and performs poetry as a way of creating community and finding new ways to stay rooted in the idea of home. Home is always changing but she finds it on stage, in writing workshops, and in the company of friends and family. She believes in the strength of words to bring together communities and offer validation of our identities and experiences. For Sanjana, writing poetry is about learning to love completely and wholly, with no shame. She believes that we can use our words to offer ourselves the ultimate affirmation of who we are.

Strange Fruit by Lewis Allen

Southern trees bear strange fruit,Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Strange Fruit is a metaphor for the many, many hangings (or lynchings) that occurred in the south prior to the 1930s. White men would hang black men, women, and children

because of their race.

Questions to Consider:

1. What words in this poem hint at the fact that “fruit” is really a human body?2. What is Lewis saying about these hangings?3. Why is the fruit strange?4. Why is this poem set in the “southern breeze”?

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

The song “Strange Fruit,” most famously performed by black jazz singer Billie Holiday, was penned by a Jewish teacher named Abel Meeropol (professional name Lewis Allen) from the Bronx. The song exposes racism in the United States, particularly the lynching of African-Americans in the South. In 1999, TIME Magazine called it the “song of the century.”

I Cryby Tupac Shakur

Sometimes when I'm alone I Cry,

Cause I am on my own. The tears I cry are bitter and warm. They flow with life but take no form

I Cry because my heart is torn. I find it difficult to carry on.

If I had an ear to confiding, I would cry among my treasured friend,

but who do you know that stops that long,

to help another carry on.

The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.

Then to stop and see what makes one cry,

so painful and sad. And sometimes...

I Cry and no one cares about why.

In The Depths of Solitudeby Tupac Shakur

i exist in the depths of solitude pondering my true goal

trying 2 find peace of mind and still preserve my soul

constantly yearning 2 be accepted and from all receive respect

never comprising but sometimes risky and that is my only regret

a young heart with an old soul how can there be peace

how can i be in the depths of solitude when there r 2 inside of me this duo within me causes

the perfect oppurtunity

2 learn and live twice as fast as those who accept simplicity

The Rose that Grew from Concreteby Tupac Shakur

Did you hear about the rose that grewfrom a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet. Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete

when no one else ever cared.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why do think it’s interesting that a rapper admits that he cries?2. What “duo” is Tupac struggling with?3. What does Tupac mean when he says “peace of mind”?4. Why does no one care that Tupac—a man from the ghettos of Cali—cries?5. What does “a rose that grew from concrete” represent?

California-born American actor and rapper Tupac Shakur wrote frequently about violence and hardship in inner cities, racism, social problems, and conflicts with other rappers. Influenced by the highly political rap of the 1980s, Tupac became one of the first socially conscious rappers from the West Coast.

To live in the borderlands by Gloria Anzaldúa

To live in the borderlands means youare neither hispana india negra españolani gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breedcaught in the crossfire between camps while carrying all five races on your backnot knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowingthat the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,is no longer speaking to you,that mexicanas call you rajetas, that denying the Anglo inside youis as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;

Cuando vives en la fronterapeople walk through you, wind steals your voice,you're a burra, buey, scapegoatforerunner of a new race,half and half--both woman and man, neither--a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means toput chile in the borschteat whole wheat tortillas,speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;be stopped by la migra at the border check points;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard toresist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,the pull of the gun barrel,the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlandsyou are the battlegroundwhere enemies are kin to each other;you are at home, a stranger,the border disputes have been settledthe volley of shots have shattered the truceyou are wounded, lost in actiondead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands meansthe mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off

your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heartpound you pinch you roll you outsmelling like white bread but dead;

To survive in the Borderlandsyou must live sin fronterasbe a

crossroads.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Gloria Anzaldúa was born in the Rio Grande Valley, Texas, in 1942. She wrote primarily about her experiences in the “borderlands” as a bilingual, bi-cultural woman. She was a leading scholar in the field of Chicano studies and women’s studies. As an author, poet, and activist, Anzaldúa radically shifted the educational landscape of the United States.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does the author write in both Spanish and English?2. What are some of the “borderlands” in this

poem (besides the physical border between Mexico and the US)?

3. Does this poem connect to your experience of living in the Valley?

4. Define “the borderlands” as Anzaldúa describes it.

West LA Downtown by Erik L.

Standing outside, hearing sirens pass by The sounds of children playing, their laughter which you could hear around the block. The smell of the air, the shattered glass from last night’s beer bottles. Pictures of innocent people. At night you can see the candles glimmering from far down the block. Graffiti on the wall, one writing over the other one trying to claim its turf. Abandoned homes where homeless people sleep. This is my community Or should I call it a Graveyard? Parents looking at me walking down the street, destroying my own community. I can change all this if I myself change. There’s another side of me, a happy teenager, seeking for a better future not only for me but for my family. I’m a smart, wise boy I just choose the wrong choices.

Lord Take These Shackles Off Of Me by Aikili M.

Lord, take these shackles off of me I’m in camp when I wanna be free People wanna take advantage of me So lord take the shackles off of me I’m locked up, my girl is missin’ me No communication but the letters she getting from me That ain’t enough, I just wish my PO could see That he’s takin’ all of what’s left of me

I’m 18 and they took me off the streets Now my next step is the penitentiary And that’s a life I don’t wanna see So I ask Lord, take ‘em off of me

To My So Called Dad by Cesar A.

I guess you were never really there to watch me grow up But yet you had time to always be locked up We didn’t ever get to spend a full day together like father and sonCause all you ever cared about was pulling the trigger to your gunI can’t tell you how much I hate youfor not being with me and my mom when we needed you Oh and hey, I just want to tell you congratulations you’re about to be a grandfather even though you never showed me how a man is supposed to grow up and be a father I remember staying up at night waiting for my mom to come home It was like she never had a chance to spend time with me cause of her job But unlike you, she didn’t ever make me feel unloved Mom, unlike you, each and every chance she got she would spend time with me She even bought me the bike you promised to buy me My mom’s love was one of a kind It made me happy and alive all in my mind I guess I hate you for making my mom struggle day and night You weren’t there to tell me what was wrong and right You were just there as a sign of hatred against my dad I got into boxing to keep me busy and let my anger out

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Aikili M., Erik L., and Cesar A. were three of Ms. Wai’s students in Camp Afflerblaugh-Paige, a boys’ probation camp in East Los Angeles through a program called Borrowed Voices. She taught slam poetry to middle-school and high-school age boys. These poems were part of the final publication, the result of a semester’s long work.

Questions to Consider:

1. Name the tone in each poem, and explain how you know.2. How does Erik L. see himself?3. Why does Aikili M. repeat “Lord take these

shacks off of me”?4. Why does Cesar A. write a poem to his father,

who will never read his writing?5. What does it mean to be a father?

‘cause I was afraid of physically hurting someone the way you mentally hurt me I’m about to turn seventeen but yet you never called me to say happy birthday

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?'Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes?Shoulders falling down like teardrops,Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard'Cause I laugh like I've got gold minesDiggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surpriseThat I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shameI riseUp from a past that's rooted in painI riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fearI riseInto a daybreak that's wondrously clearI riseBringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,I am the dream and the hope of the slave.I riseI riseI rise.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Maya Angelou, born April 4, 1928 as Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, was raised in segregated rural Arkansas. She is a poet, historian, author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, producer and director. Popular themes in her writing include racism and civil rights. She actively advocates for Africans, African-Americans, and women all around the country through spoken word.

Questions to Consider:

1. Describe the tone of this poem, and justify your answer.2. Why does Angelou repeat “I rise”? 3. Who is the speaker of this poem (or rather,

who does the “I” represent)?4. Who is the audience of this poem (who is the

“you” in this poem)?

Untitled by Adriel Luis, aka subSCRYBE

no idwhat am i?

can somebody please tell me what i am?am i asian or man or a combination?

i glare in the mirror and picture a figure of vibrancy beyond comprehensionand by extension

just a guy with a lot to saywhich is irrelevant

since whatever i utter will just be followed by the questionWOW! CAN YOU SAY THAT IN CHINESE TOO???

as much as i struggle to reveal my true self to youunfortunately all attempts to model the image of myself as a man up til now

have been tainted with the stereotypes i’ve been brandished withso don’t act so confused when i ask

what am i?because society has lied to me and blinded me

to the point where the 9-digit label it cursed upon meonce convinced me that i actually had

social securityand i was convinced that since i was

spawned from american soilnourished by american resources and

taught in american institutionsthat american racism would never bear its ugly head

to bring downwhat it brought up

because i was so convinced thatthat made no sense

and i was convinced that everyone knew thatthat made no sense

but see, i’ve learned since theni learned since then that i wasn’t’ just another kid with the loose teeth

but instead i’m a crude geek that’s unique

i’ve learned thatthough i have a defined skin tone

in this world it seems it’s my skin tone that defines me

but most of alli’ve learned to be angry because of that

sadly i have this fury instilled within the very depths of my beingthat I even have to prove myself to you

to get beyond your illusions of dropkicks and chopsticksto make my true self seen with even a hint of logic

and you need to realize that thoughmy eyes are slanted and half-closed

i see your prejudice crystal clearWe will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

so noweven though I’m aware of what you mean when you ask

WHAT AM I?I choose not to feed your prying curiosity

sowhat am i?

i’m the epitome of the very reasonyou find it necessary to water down my rich culture in your

melting potso don’t get mad at me because i choose to be that crazyyellow-skinned nightmare admist your amerikan dream.

after alli’m just trying to answer your questionAnd i’m having a hell of a time doing it

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Adriel Luis, aka subSCRYBE, is a writer, spoken word artist, and graphic designer from Northern California. He frequently writes about racism from an Asian-American perspective. He blogs for the popular progressive site, change.org, advocating for racial equality, educational reform, and human rights. Luis also helped found the spoken word youth group called iLL-Literacy.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does Luis write “i” in lower-case form (and sometimes in upper-case form)?2. Who is Luis addressing in this poem? (Who is the “you” in this poem?)3. What do you think it means to be “a man”?4. How does the audience see Luis? How does this differ from how Luis sees himself?5. The poem addresses issues that face the Asian-American community, but what themes

in this poem connect to your own life or your own experiences?6. What does Luis mean in the last two lines when he says “i’m just trying to answer your

question / and i’m having a hell of a time doing it”?7. Does this poem effectively convey Luis’ message?

It Happened in Montgomery(for Rosa Parks)by Phil W. Petrie

Then he slammed on the brakes—Turned around and grumbled.

But she was tired that day.Weariness was in her bones.

And so the thing she’s done yesterday,And yesteryear,

On her workdays,Churchdays,

Nothing-to-do-I’ll-go-and-visitSister Annie Days—

She felt she’d never do again.And he growled once more.

So she said:“No sir…I’m stayin right here.”

And he gruffly grabbed her,Pulled and pushed her—

Then sharply shoved her through the doors.The news slushed through the littered streets

Slipped into the crowded churches,Slimmered onto the unmagnolied side of town.While the men talked and talked and talked.

She—Who was tired that day,

Cried and sobbed that she wasglad she’d done it.

That her soul was satisfied.That Lord knows,

A little walkin’ never hurt anybody;That in one of those unplanned, unexpected

Unadorned moments—A weary woman turned the page

of History.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is this poem about?2. Does this story differ from other

accounts you’ve heard? Why or why not?

3. Why does Petrie capitalize the “H” in “History” (last line)?

4. Why do you think Petrie wrote this poem?

Phil W. Petrie is a freelance writer and former book publishing editor. He lives in Clarksville, Tennessee, and has written articles for numerous publications, including Black Enterprise and The New Crisis.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is the main message of this poem?

2. What does the “sigh” tell you, the reader, about how the speaker feels?

Robert Frost (1874 – 1963) was one of America’s most popular twentieth-century poets. For much of his life, he lived on a farm in New Hampshire and wrote poems about farm life and the New England landscape. His apparently simple poems, however, have many layers of meaning.

Oranges by Gary Soto

We will use our POWER as tools, not weapons.

The first time I walkedWith a girl, I was twelve,Cold, and weighted downWith two oranges in my jacket.December. Frost crackingBeneath my steps, my breathBefore me, then gone,As I walked towardHer house, the one whosePorch light burned yellowNight and day, in any weather.A dog barked at me, untilShe came out pullingAt her gloves, face brightWith rouge. I smiled,Touched her shoulder, and ledHer down the street, acrossA used car lot and a lineOf newly planted trees,Until we were breathingBefore a drugstore. WeEntered, the tiny bellBringing a salesladyDown a narrow aisle of goods.I turned to the candiesTiered like bleachers,And asked what she wanted -Light in her eyes, a smileStarting at the cornersOf her mouth. I fingeredA nickel in my pocket,And when she lifted a chocolateThat cost a dime,I didn’t say anything.I took the nickel fromMy pocket, then an orange,And set them quietly onThe counter. When I looked up,The lady’s eyes met mine,And held them, knowingVery well what it was allAbout.

Outside,

A few cars hissing past,Fog hanging like oldCoats between the trees.I took my girl’s handIn mine for two blocks,Then released it to letHer unwrap the chocolate.I peeled my orangeThat was so bright againstThe gray of DecemberThat, from some distance,Someone might have thoughtI was making a fire in my hands.

Gary Soto was born in Fresno, California, in April, 1952, to working-class Mexican-American parents. At a young age, he worked in the fields of the San Joaquin Valley. He was not academically motivated as a child, but became interested in poetry during his high school years. He writes primarily about the daily experiences of Chicanos, and has won several awards. His influences include Pablo Neruda and Robert Frost.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is the symbolic meaning of oranges in this poem?

2. What is the mood of this poem?3. What does Soto mean when he writes,

“I was making a fire in my hands”?4. Does this poem remind you of any of

your experiences?5. Why do you think Soto writes about

such a seemingly simple experience?

United Fruit Company by Pablo Neruda

Translation by John Mitchell

When the trumpet sounded,everything was prepared on the earthand Jehovah parceled out the worldto Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda,Ford Motors, and other corporations.the United Fruit Companyreserved for itself the most juicy,piece, the central coast of my land,the delicate waist of America.

It rebaptized these landsBanana Republics,And over the sleeping dead,over the unquiet heroes,who won greatness,liberty, and banners,it established an opera buffa:it abolished free will,gave out imperial crowns,encouraged envy, attractedthe dictatorship of the flies:Trujillo flies, Tacho flies,Carías flies, Martínez flies,Ubico flies, flies sticky withSubmissive blood and marmaladedrunken flies that buzz over the tombs of the people,circus flies, wise fliesexpert at tyranny.

With the bloody flies,came the Fruit Company, amassed coffee and the fruits,in ships which put to sea likeoverloaded trays with the treasuresfrom our sunken lands.

Meanwhile the Indians fallinto the sugared depths of the harbors and are buried in themorning mists;a corpse rolls, a thing withoutname, a discarded number,a bunch of rotten fruitthrown on the garbage heap.

Original

Cuando sonó la trompeta, estuvotodo preparado en la tierra,y Jehova repartió el mundoa Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda,Ford Motors, y otras entidades:la Compañía Frutera Inc.se reservó lo más jugoso,la costa central de mi tierra,la dulce cintura de América.

Bautizó de nuevo sus tierrascomo "Repúblicas Bananas,"y sobre los muertos dormidos,sobre los héroes inquietosque conquistaron la grandeza,la libertad y las banderas,estableció la ópera bufa:enajenó los albedríosregaló coronas de César,desenvainó la envidia, atrajola dictadora de las moscas,moscas Trujillos, moscas Tachos,moscas Carías, moscas Martínez,moscas Ubico, moscas húmedasde sangre humilde y mermelada,moscas borrachas que zumbansobre las tumbas populares,moscas de circo, sabias moscasentendidas en tiranía.

Entre las moscas sanguinariasla Frutera desembarca,arrasando el café y las frutas,en sus barcos que deslizaron como bandejas el tesorode nuestras tierras sumergidas.

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda was deeply involved in politics and the fight for social justice and equality. He wrote “United Fruit Company” in 1950 to bring attention to current political issues. The poem’s purpose was to bring attention to injustices brought upon the native populations of Central and South America that were a result of American companies (and the U.S. government with the help of the CIA) and dictators throughout the region who exploited their labor and forcefully suppressed democratic movements.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does Neruda write this poem?

2. Trujillo, Tacho, Carías, Martínez, and Ubico were all Latin American dictators supported by the American government, who profited off of their rule. Why does Neruda call them “flies”?

3. What is the tone of this poem?

5. Do you think the translation is accurate? What meaning gets lost

Mientras tanto, por los abismosazucarados de los puertos,caían indios sepultadosen el vapor de la mañana:un cuerpo rueda, una cosasin nombre, un número caído,un racimo de fruta muertaderramada en el pudridero.