He looks for the changing faces
of America and sees them in the
faces that greet him in the hall-
ways of the motels in which

he stays on his way west.
Hardly ever do the black eyes
with brown faces look his blue
eyes straight on. Those glancing

down never speak except when
spoken to. He hears them speak-
ing among themselves and so
offers, “Buenos dias, senora

or senorita.” “Buenos dias, senor.”
“Trabaja muy duro.” “Gracias.
De nada.” Or another with a
burka smiles and he simply says,

“Good morning.” In a thick accent,
she replies in kind. He thinks
about the long days and short pay
and the husbands and children

and thinks to himself the country
is in good hands, the hands that
laboriously clean the rooms and
make the beds so he could have a

good night’s sleep and so much
more importantly, so that, like his
grandparents, they can watch their
children grow-up, graduate and,

one day, thank a housekeeper at
a motel on the way west.