ZOOT SUIT

RAMÓN

California, 1943

All we wanted to do was dance

the jitterbug, like everyone else.

Twelve years old, stripped of my clothes,

attacked, beaten, humiliated, simply because

my jacket and slacks are a new style, loose, cool.

When the police finally arrive,

they just laugh and praise

all those racist sailors

for raging against

the color of skin

beneath

clothes.

Is there any way in the world

that I’ll ever understand hatred?

Why do all the newspapermen

who take my picture

write about Zoot Suit Riots

instead of giving their articles

more truthful titles

like Sailor Rage?

Why have we

been arrested,

instead of them?

This is wartime!

Shouldn’t those US Navy men

find real enemies to attack

instead of ordinary

neighborhood kids

like me and my

friends?