I stand and look toward the Mill
Proclaim my rage and pain
Heart witness to the aftermath of
A savage act
The morning execution of
A young man on his way to work
Johan Sebastian Guerrero
His daughter in bluey pajamas waving goodbye
Her hand, back and forth,
Promising the tomorrows of his toil
He was the same as a penniless, orphaned 13 year old boy,
Vasilios Boucouvalas
Who, over a century ago
Looked across the horizon
From another continent and said
“There, There…
I’m told of The Mills in…..Biff-ford?”
A town whose name could not roll off his Greek tongue
But would do
The offer of free passage and $2.50 a week in pay
Was enough to flee war, starvation and grief, pulling him across
A wide ocean to the hope of a dream
Shelter, one day a wife, a start- over family
A cog in the immigrant wheel
Working “Biff-ord” mill looms and machines
Hard laboring long hours for low wages
To build an economy
And a future
Whose seven children would one day go to school
Get jobs
Pay taxes
Fight in a war, defend the country that gave HIM a chance
Whose grandchildren would go further: teachers, scientists, doctors, artists, economists, writers
One who today, over 100 years later, stands here in “Biff-ord” telling her grandfather’s story
To honor him, Vasilios Boucouvalas,
and a young man, Johan Sebastian Guerrero, with the very same dream
Who instead, bled away in the street
Felled by ignorance and hate
Whose waving daughter will have to tell that part of the story to HIS grandchildren
When they write theirs