Part 1:
What immediately struck me is how Espada spaces and breaks in between his lines. For the majority theyâre abrupt and give the illusion of a rough texture; making it extremely uncomfortable to read and difficult to achieve a natural reader's flow. Although reading this poem was a slight struggle, I thoroughly enjoyed this conscious decision. The intentional breaks juxtapose and emphasize the story Espada is telling. His printing plant job was harsh, tough, and unforgiving. This can be seen in the lines, âthen the glue would string / hands oozing / tile both palms burned / at the punclock.â The characteristics I mentioned are beautifully apparent in the aesthetic of the poem. The breaks accompanied with the brutal vocabulary, such as âoozingâ and âburned,â give the poem a heavy weight and intensity that truly encompasses Espadaâs experience.
The last stanza is the most comfortable to read, another conscious decision that reveals Espadaâs point of view towards upward mobility. Heâs commenting that the higher the social ladder we climb, the more luxuries we are given. He avoids including details that gives the reader the assumption that these luxuries are âearned.â Instead, he implies that they are naturally a part of the upper class environment and that being a part of such class does not automatically suggest that the people have âearnedâ or âachievedâ such gratification. Espada also argues that the higher class also has the leisure of looking at hardships through a one-way mirror. The struggles of the lower class can be acknowledged, but their labor pain does not affect classes above them.
Part 2:
Young 13 year old Jamie wanted to bleach her hair and dye random chunks with colors that were similar to highlighters: neon green, bright red, and electric blue. I couldnât achieve this look because I couldnât afford the products needed to make this transformation happen. I needed bleach, a lot of bleach, and even more bleach to lift my black virgin hair to a shade that would resemble blonde. Â I also couldnât afford my parents approval of conducting such treatment to my appearance. Every time I confronted them about this desire theyâd frown, shake their heads, and sigh out loud a rejection. Regardless, I could afford to imagine and dream about the transformation.
I constantly yearned for this look for years. Looking back, I think itâs because I wanted the world to recognize me for being different. Or cool. Or something. A lot of the kids who had dyed wild, vibrant hair tended to be the ones that also were the more rebellious. I remember there was a group of these students and they all prided themselves on having poor relationship with their families, but coped with this by attending raves and consuming hallucinogens. Weirdly, I thought this was cool. Maybe I hoped that if I dyed my hair I could join their clan. Be a part of their comradely. Instead of joining in a âhoo haâ weâd always go, âfuck yeah!â
Now, older, the most I do to my hair is dye the majority brown with some blonde highlights here and there. I donât perform this self-treatment in hopes to fit in and participate with a new crowd. I purposely damage my hair to feel me, whatever âmeâ is.












