Home is a place
far away,
where the saguaros stand taller
than the people,
where the dry air caresses
your face,
where the food has love—
that you can taste;
guacamole, pico de gallo,
limón, arroz con carne asada,
food that you miss
when you cannot have it
food that holds you in its embrace
food that crosses generational lines.
I am American, but never enough to be.
I am Mexicana, but not enough. I walk the line.
I am Pinay, but barely enough to be.
I am a tree ripped away from my roots.
Spanish words fall from my mouth;
people stare, people gawk.
English words, no one cares. America the Great
Melting Pot.
People judge,
I must have crossed a border
and was burned by the sun to be where I am,
assume that I do not speak English,
but I can only be American,
and never who I truly am.
People would treat me
differently if they knew;
“you’re Mexican,” a girl away
from the soil of her home,
feeling like an outlander
in a culture
that is simultaneously
hers.