The Canaanite Woman Speaks to Christian America

Inspired by Matthew 15:21–28 and the lived cries of immigrants at the borders of “Blessed America.”

Alright.
I get it.

This is inappropriate.
I promise you.
I know my place.

I’m the outsider.
The one your borders were made to keep out.
The one who speaks the wrong tongue, wears the wrong skin,
comes from the wrong side.

I’m not even supposed to be posting this,
not supposed to write this way,
not supposed to use this tone.

And yet I do.

How arrogant of me, right?

How out of place that I show up uninvited,
bringing nothing but need,
nothing but a mother’s cracked voice
and a child who can’t stop shaking.

I know what you think.
You are the blessed ones.
God’s chosen. God’s favored nation.
I’ve heard your slogans.
I’ve seen your flags.
I know what I am in your eyes.

A burden.
A threat.
A problem.

A dog.

But listen—
I am not here to argue.

I’m not here to prove my worth
or wave papers
or recite pledges
or explain my accent.

I’m not asking for a seat at your table.

I’m asking—
let the crumbs fall.

Keep your place.
Keep your power.
Keep your language, your pride, your blessings.

I’m not here to take anything.
Just let your mercies fall from your table—
that would be a miracle for me and my family.

My daughter is suffering.
My husband wants to work.
I want her to go to school without fear.
I want her to have a doctor when she is sick.
We want to live without hiding.
We want to breathe without being hunted.

We want what you say this land is for.

They all look down.
They all look away.
And I’ve stopped trying to be respectable.

I will cry out if I have to.
I will kneel in the dust.

Call me illegal!
Call me alien!
Call me whatever you must!

I’ve been called worse…

I’m not here to change your mind about me,
because I love her.

I’m not here for pride.
I’m here for healing.

So I’ll ask you,
like I asked him—
from the margins,
from the shadows,
from the underside of your blessed nation:

Will you see me?