Out in the middle of nowhere, there lies a bundle of buildings and in this bundle of buildings lies a space to discuss sensitive subjects safely. The door opens, the class begins, the time passes and the question gets asked: “How do you feel when someone calls you a wetback?” Blank stares look back at me. White faces, brown faces, delicate faces and perturbed faces look up at me, but one face stood out eager to speak. She answers, “It hurts, I don’t know, it’s like . . . it makes you feel bad . . . I don’t know why (her voice starts to tremble) . . . .” She looks at me intently and her eyes well-up with tears; she looks at me as if I can save her. I feel that I can’t, at least not the way she wants me to. The hour grows late, and she begins to step out of the door out into the vast space of grass, but then turns around and enters, instead, into my space. She wants help and, yes, I think I CAN help her.
A Journal of Community-Engaged Writing and Rhetoric