I’m busy making problems where there are none.
Is there such a thing, I wonder, as an encouraging
rejection? Bandanna wrapped around my forehead,
I’m culturally appropriating myself. I speak no
Spanish. A modern chulita. Hefting babies on
her hip, the woman on the L train platform asks me,
¿Hablas espanol? The fear in her eyes is palpable. I say
no, feeling guilty as sin. Somewhere along the way
I’ve lost my culture. Still, with gold hoop earrings
on Wycko Avenue, I feel at home. Making a name
for myself among the pendejos, the stoop corner
boys, pool balls cracking. I’m a bad Mexican, a good
daughter, a lost sheep looking for my ock. Tell me,
what is it about late nights and slurry Spanish on
the neighbor’s radio? A siren song to another country,
culture, that is my own but is not my own. Send me home.
