I see you there. I’m listening quietly as my blood boils, nodding my head in agreement as my heart roils and you look beautiful on your stage as you wage war on my people, seeking status on the backs of poor black and brown children, for us it is a life, a struggle, a lifelong search for truth but for you it is an intellectual massage, a quickie, a mirage, a fascinating discussion where you ponder the possibility of more death and more destruction, our women raped and our babies’ abductions. All the while they mistake our starving eyes for smiles in your papers, you write your books and collect degrees, a celebrity within your field and those who could never tell my face from another poor brown one will call you a “good person”. an expert. a visionary. Some of you even want to be revolutionary, you’re outraged but your anger gets displaced by the glitters of admiring fans and readers, the microphones that make your voice reverberate like a god enhanced by speakers, the check in the mail after that first book, that tenured position that only a U.S. citizen could have took, that supplementary income that could feed my entire village but we are an afterthought cause revolutionaries can’t eat at faculty luncheons on student debt checks without feeling their hypocrisy, can’t speak about war and torture and the slow death of millions by ever deepening poverty without letting my hunger enter you and make you ache cause your belly is gorged on empty promises.