“No eres mexicana.
no sabes
la lengua
la cultura, lo que
significa ser parte de una
familia mas grande que solo
“familia” biológica.”
I keep my head down.
They are right.
I’m not mexican. I practice
rolling r’s and burritos.
I don’t know how to
cook up a snarky comeback or
beans on the stove.
I am
white. I grew up with
television and nice
school and a
safe neighborhood.
I don’t know what it is to
walk out at 9 pm for
bread and meat, or
fun and games.
La noche es una criatura
peligrosa.
My family is
quiet.
Nobody besides my family has my
skin. My hair. My
life.
But I have theirs. I
am molded into their
customs.
Peanut butter and jelly and
expensive mechanical pencils.
Trying not to pack leftovers because
it is not cool.
Quizás no me pertenezco en
nada mundo.
I am lost. Soy una
gatita que anda por las
calles ruidas, no
hace un sonido por el
miedo que una me
pisa.
But maybe I’m not
alone. Maybe hay
otras, like me, that live
una vida blanca but look like
una vida morena.
If only I could
find them.
And we could talk about
how mamá and papá are
too strict in this
soft world.
how being una gatita is living
full of confusion and
fear.
Ad how refreshing,
relieving, como una
agua fresca en un día que hace calor,
it is to see the reflection in the mirror isn’t
just me.
And we’ll hold hands, and
nos damos cuenta que del pensamiento
that family can mean more than just
familia.
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