To the White Supremacist Who Referred to Me as Taco Boy

Photograph by Jose Padua
It’s been said that what makes life
so precious is how it can all suddenly
end, but why should I believe the
scoundrel who tells me this? Why
should I trust him more than the man
who sells the snake oil and says you
can live forever or the woman telling
fortunes behind the blue glass storefront
in the sort of old downtown that’s vanishing
before our eyes? Not everything that is
precious becomes a snake once the doors
are closed. Not all fortunes collapse
or explode just because the woman
telling it has an intense way of expressing
her dark opinions. There are times
when a dog on its four legs senses
disaster more accurately than a reading
of highly calibrated instruments, days
when aching bones say more
than thick reports in heavy black binders.
I confess that I’ve only started asking
for extra, for more than what you think
is my fair share, and I’m about to stop
saying ‘Sir’ and asking ‘May I?”
We breathe the same air, drink
the same water, but the planets
still revolve around the sun and
reflect its light, and even the universe
as wide and heavy as it already is,
will continue to amaze us in
its ceaseless efforts to expand.

-Jose Padua

Photograph, “The Sky As Organized Over the Fast Food Restaurant,” by Jose Padua

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2 responses to “To the White Supremacist Who Referred to Me as Taco Boy

  1. I’m sorry that happened to you.

    It is true that the veracity of the fortune, the value of the snake oil, is independent of the cookie or salesman that offers it.

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