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.