We are all migrants here. Working with our thumbs and hands in the organic orchid field. We are all brown with the sun and some from family. We do not all speak Spanish. I speak some, enough. I dream it and can tell when I’m the butt of another’s joke. To know slurs and insults, to roll with the subtle, confusingly slow brushes against my backside as I lean into the plants. Click here to read more.