Querido los Campesinos,
First body. My body. Nourished by the crispy produce that you pick, packaged into product that is shipped to your table and mine. My body glides past worker-filled fields on Saturday mornings. My eyes unable to lift themselves to watch labor that eats away oceans of green leaves and leaves fresh foods in soft boxes ready to be consumed. My body shakes at the thought of you working for an institution that disrespects you; and it quivers at the idea of doing anything meaningful to help you.
Second body. Your body. Simmering under the red-hot, California sun that births yellow rays and bleeds white heat that trickles down your skin as glistening sweat. Swift movements fell flowered vines, and steady hands work with the precision of a honeybee, not bumbling, rather, working dutifully and speedily, fastidiously. Your body, policed by others who claim you stole their job as they lie in bed with their family as you head to work with yours, works and writhes without worry for tomorrow. Your body works in ways unknown to most of the workforce.
Third body. No body. Nobody parallels your sacrifice for survival. And high school girls cry for their fathers who throw their bodies onto fertilized fields six days a week; And mothers wear half-sweatshirts in half-scorching heats during ten-hour work days; And uncles take dirt and make fruits that bleed sweet juice that trickles down the face of their youngest, a smile eating away, interlaced with sour seeds. These moments have no body, and dissolve into the air that feeds your plants; grounded into this earth by nothing.
I sincerely hope these words of this letter broken down into broken bodies, body by body, letter by letter fall on ears; hopefully fall; hopefully fall on