Oxnard is a dusty little Southern California city in the middle of farms where people speaking Spanish bend over plants all day, pull irrigation pipes down the fields under power lines, build white hoop houses, and sell produce beside the road.
The white bike with the shadow of a cross is a memorial, the post on the telephone pole advertises treatment for nerve pain in the back. They are proud of their hard working pickups and wash them behind the shops across from the DMV. Homeless sit under piles of their clothes against walls …
