For My Uncles, Father, and all the workers

p nbsp;/p p I grew up seeing them, workers.nbsp; They were uncles and friends of Unclesmdash;guys whose names were ldquo;Antrdquo;, ldquo;Boozerdquo;, ldquo;Hermanrdquo; ldquo;So-Deeprdquo;, Davemdash;and so many others.nbsp; They were janitors or hospital portersmdash;mostly janitors.nbsp; They worked and told me to stay in school, to study hard, to hit the books and never mind the ladiesmdash;the ladies will come, theyrsquo;d saymdash;they told me that they didnrsquo;t want to see me grow up to be like them.nbsp; I was going to be differenthellip;I emwas/em different.nbsp; I looked at my uncles, checked out the way they walked, talkedmdash;they exuded confidence and spiritmdash;not in the university or academic sensemdash;but it the true sense.nbsp; They had a sense of who they were as men of colormdash;young men who had seen men like themselves excluded from academia, had seen good young men and women with potential relegated to their ldquo;place in societyrdquo;.nbsp; They had fire in their bones, they didnrsquo;t forget who they were as Filipino and black people./p p nbsp;/p p They spoke with tongues stained with soy sauce, hot chili, fish sauce and roast pig, which was our ancestral struggle that accented the words they spokemdash;gave true meaning to their soundsmdash;theirnbsp; marginalized and excluded syllables formed from church claps, the thundering drum, the boiling rice pot and broken English their parents spoke around the kitchen table./p p nbsp;/p p They would tell me that there was nothing free in this life, that if you wanted anything you had to get off your ass and get it.nbsp; ldquo;You donrsquo;t want to swing a mop like merdquo; theyrsquo;d say, ldquo;You donrsquo;t want to clean toilets do you?rdquo;nbsp; And so I went to school, was a fairly decent studentmdash;I was, as my uncles would say, ldquo;An educated brown boyrdquo;.nbsp; I ended up with an educated brown boy jobmdash;an office jobmdash;and my uncle would visit me and behold my desk with the collection of paper clips that fitted into a nice chain that kept me tethered tonbsp;the chair.nbsp; ldquo;Yoursquo;re an executive! Hersquo;d exclaim.nbsp; I would get a little embarrassed and reply, ldquo;Irsquo;m a customer service rephellip;emany fool can do this job/emrdquo;--which was true.nbsp; Allnbsp;I didnbsp;wasnbsp;answer the phone or make calls--asking very probingnbsp;questions such as thenbsp;whereabouts ofnbsp;one#39;s colonoscopy report.nbsp;nbsp;And the guy on the other endnbsp;would try to remember that colonoscopy, the where and when and why--who wasnbsp;that Doctor, hold on, i wrote his name on a napkin, etc. etc.--oh, whatnbsp;memories.nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;My uncle would look at me like a gem in a pawn shop.nbsp; ldquo;Yoursquo;re an executive!rdquo; he would exclaim again.nbsp; I threw up my handshellip;emok, ok Irsquo;m an executive!nbsp; /emThen wersquo;d take the elevator and go the hamburger place across the street.nbsp;/p p nbsp;/p p Hersquo;d treat me to a burger.nbsp; ldquo;Let me payrdquo;, Irsquo;d protest but hersquo;d pay, pushing the bills I pulled out back into my pocket.nbsp; ldquo;Yoursquo;ll pay it off eventuallyrdquo;.nbsp; Wersquo;d sit and talk about the faces of our people, our elders, their voices.nbsp; My uncle is a born storyteller.nbsp; And as he speaks I see the workers, the migrants picking up trays, sweeping floors, wiping tables.nbsp; What stories do they hold in their hands?nbsp; I listen to my uncle and hear his voice and the voice of all workers who want to free their stories but never get the chance.nbsp;/p p nbsp;/p p I look at his face and taste his wordsmdash;his laughter is still there, it rises like fire.nbsp; The workers hear it.nbsp; It takes them to another place for a momentmdash;an area of pause, where we can be ourselves, can take back our lives.nbsp; Wersquo;re all laughing together.nbsp; Then, itrsquo;s time to get back to work.nbsp;/p