Step one: Learn silence.
Hold your words tight,
let your hands do the talking.
Step two: Keep your head down.
Smile when they shout,
nod when they ask,
say your name slowly,
again,
and again.
Step three: Be grateful.
For the job,
the tips,
the chance to start over.
Grateful for the air—
it smells of chemicals,
not bombs.
In boats that cracked under weight,
families drifted on black water,
huddled under stars that did not guide them.
They landed in places they did not choose.
California. Texas. Louisiana.
Names they'd never spoken before,
now written in ink on paper,
next to numbers they didn't understand.
They learned new trades,
hold sharp tools steady in our hands,
calloused hands, patient hands,
hands that can build
even when nothing is given.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem