My grandmother told me stories of the Sonoran Revolutionaries.
At dinnertime, the soldiers of the late Pancho Villa would arrive in a glittering cloud of desert dust.
My great grandmother would send the children outside, and my grandma would sit on the warm ground, watching the sun set over the smoke trees.
She would lean her back against the walls of the house and listen closely – tales of uprising and unrest mixed with the sweet smell of tobacco would seep through the cracks in the adobe.
After dark, the men would stomp away into the night, and my grandma and her siblings would be welcomed back in to eat whatever was leftover from the soldiers meal.
When I asked why they always would always welcome the soldiers, even when food was scarce, she told me “You must always make room at your table for your heroes.”
Today, I cannot help but think of these stories –
My people who stood for something, even when they had nothing to stand on.
To those of you who continue to rise up, even under the weight of heavy hearts – to those of you who use your voice, screaming behind the muffle of oppression – to those of you who are standing on the margins, arms linked with those who can’t stand on their own – Please know that our doors are always open to you.
You are my heroes, and there will always be room for you at my table (or my campfire).