Latin Experience

I was four years old when I went to school for the first time.
No one spoke my language.
I was given homework I couldn’t complete.
But I went home to tortillas, rice, and beans
And I was happy.

I was five years old when I began learning english.
It was broken and bad.
I could write at least.
But I went home to caldo de pollo, rice, and beans
And I was happy.

I was six years old when I started being good at english.
A girl on the bus would bully me every day and call me names.
I didn’t want to know English anymore.
But I went home to tamales, rice, and beans
And I was happy.

I was seven years old when I got my hair cut.
It was a stupid bowl cut.
Everyone called me Dora the Explorer.
But I went home to mole, rice, and beans
And I was happy.

I was eight years old when tia Marta died.
My father brought me to Guatemala for the funeral.
I asked to meet my grandfather and my dad lied, and said he was on vacation
Rather than face the man that abandoned him to die.
But I went home to pepian, rice, and beans
And I was happy.

I was nine years old
When dad betrayed me for the first time.
He didn’t believe me, saying that “family came first.”
But I went home to tortillas, rice, and beans
And I was okay.

I was ten years old
When I learnt what suicide was.
I tried it but I was stopped.
Instead of comfort, I got an ass whooping.
I had just been discharged from the hospital and I got an ass whooping.
But I went home to sopapillas, rice, and beans
And I was okay.

I was eleven years old
When someone called me a beaner for the first time
I didn’t know what that meant yet.
But I went home to sopapillas, rice, and beans
And I was okay.

I was twelve years old
When a girl I didn’t know stopped me at school
And told me Donald Trump was going to deport me
But I went home to sopapillas, rice, and beans
And I was okay.

I was thirteen years old
When dad had a mental breakdown in front of me
Vividly describing the corpse of a woman beaten to death he saw when he was my age.
But I went home to sopes, rice, and beans
And I was okay.

I was fourteen years old
When I had my own dreams for the last time.
I became afraid I would never leave my father’s grasp.
I formulated a hundred plans to get out the moment I could.
I was confident that by the time I was older, I would be far away, unable to be controlled any longer.
In the end, all hundred plans failed.
All the dreams I had after this, were dreams someone else handed to me.
But I went home to tostadas, rice, and beans
And I was okay.

I was fifteen years old
When I had my quinceanera.
My mother micromanaged the whole thing, until it was practically her quince.
She didn’t even want me to have my own dress.
My mother was too poor to afford her own quince
So maybe this was her way of trying to finally reach her goal.
But I went home to zacahuil, rice, and beans
And I was fine.

I was sixteen years old
When I began attempting suicide again.
This time, in secret.
I was afraid every time I did.
I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was afraid I would survive.
I was afraid of what my dad would do.
But I went home to caldo de res, rice, and beans
And I was fine.

I was seventeen years old
When Mama Eva died
Dad went to her funeral and left me behind
Because “someone needed to watch the kids”
But I went home to gorditas, rice, and beans
And I was fine.

I was eighteen years old
When I told dad I was Mexican
And he corrected me, saying I was American, and I will never be anything other than that.
But when I hung out with the Americans, I was the “mexican chick”
So which one was it, really?
A few days later, dad told me I was a failure
And I needed to clean up my act, or I’d end up like my “thug” of a cousin, Christian.
No less than two days later, he was gone.
After the funeral, I broke down at the liquor store.
And my mother slapped me for crying in public.
But I went home to pollo asado, rice, and beans
And I was fine.

I was nineteen years old
When I realized
I will never be enough no matter how hard I try.
Not motherly enough, not clean enough, not studious enough, not American enough, not Latino enough, not good enough.
I am too American for the Latinos.
But too Latino for the Americans.
I am too Mexican for the Guatemalans.
And too Guatemalan for the Mexicans.
I am just a conduit for dreams that aren’t my own.
I cannot cry because that is ungrateful
To my father who came here illegally and gave me everything
I don’t want to be ungrateful
I just wish I could be enough.
But I went home to just rice and beans.
And I was there.