From yer Facebooks
I’m in California—the golden state-where much of the economy runs on the calloused hands of Mexican laborers. I’m walking through a sunlit park in San Diego, trying to quiet my mind. I pause before a monument because I love stories—of places, people, and things.
The plaque isn’t whitewashed. It tells of the people who once governed this place. Not settlers—Mexicans. Prosperous families who built towns, irrigated fields, ranched cattle, and raised children.For centuries, this was Mexico. Until it wasn’t.
Because then came the Mexican-American War. A polite name for theft. The United States, bloated with ambition, looked at Mexico’s deepwater ports, fertile valleys, and growing economy and said, “We’ll be taking that.”
Mexico fought back—hard, longer than they had any right to against a better-armed empire. But resistance has its limits. Eventually, they were pushed back, and what was once Mexico was carved up and swallowed whole. California, Arizona, Texas, New Mexico: now rebranded with American sensibilities.
But, while the street names here are in Spanish,the descendants of the people who lost that war are the ones being hunted. Rounded up. Deported. Ripped from their children. Labeled criminals on the same soil their ancestors once called home.
History doesn’t repeat—it metastasizes.
We claim the border must be protected, as if the threat is coming from the people with dust on their boots and twenty dollars in their pockets. The real invasion is the billionaires who want more for themselves: more money, more power, more resources.
This was once Mexico. The war never ended. It just changed shape.
