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Growing up
my mom used to
cook leftovers and
roll them into
warm flour tortillas
to make burritos
out of anything
and everything.

It didn’t have to be
refried beans or rice,
it could be scrambled eggs
and bacon
or chili colorado.

She wasn’t prejudiced,
food was food.

So, here’s my contribution
to the canon of Mexican cuisine:

take one
all-American hot dog
(the higher the fat content,
the more American)
and microwave it
for 30 seconds
on a paper towel,

and while that’s cooking,
heat over an open flame
one authentic
made-with-lard
flour tortilla,
and allow it to burn
just a little bit
like Grandma Trini used to,
and then say
“the burned part
is good for you,”

next, unwrap a slice
of American cheese
and place it
on the tortilla,
top with the hot dog
and zap it another
30 seconds,

then squirt it with
a line of ketchup
(or catsup),

and roll it up
(don’t forget
to tuck the bottom in,
a rookie mistake)

and presto,
you have a weenie-reeto!

The perfect
all-American snack
for hungry
culturally-assimilated
Mexicans
everywhere!

Es delicioso!

Christmas 1997.

I ventured far from
the West Coast
land of my ancestors
and spent the holidays
in Maryland
where the people
were pleasant
and surprisingly
multicolored.

On Christmas Day
as I strolled the boulevard
with my White companion,
a warm blanket of security
and belonging
and perhaps universal
love
surrounded me,

and as we walked past
others I greeted them

“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy Holidays!”
“Season’s Greetings!”

I was thankful
for the profound effect
the birth of Jesus
had on peoples’ kindness.

It felt good.

Two young White men
approached us
and they appeared to be
more than a little drunk
and carrying a few more
6-packs
back to their home
and as they walked by
they said something,
and I answered them with
“Merry Christmas”

but something didn’t feel right.

I stopped and
looked at my companion
whose face betrayed
a puzzled expression.

She asked
“didn’t you hear
what they said?”

“Didn’t they say
‘Merry Christmas’
or something like that?”

She said
“No, they said
‘Happy Beaner Christmas.’”

Shit.
Really?
On Christmas?

I shrugged it off –
what can you expect from
a couple of
gabachos borachos?

Perhaps they had their fill
of love and brotherhood
this holiday season and
my appearance afforded them
an unexpected chuckle.

Perhaps
they saw me as a gift
from their twisted
and diseased god.

Mercifully,
I was scheduled to return
to Southern California
the next day

and I’ve decided that
I’ll spend the rest
of my Christmases here

just as my ancestors
always have.

Imagine my confusion
when my fourth-grade teacher
kept correcting the way I
pronounced my cousin’s name.

Mr. Brown (ironically named)
confidently proclaimed:
“Roza Linh-deh”
and I countered with
“Rosa Leen-dah,”
which is how I heard it
my entire life.

We did this two-step
for about a minute
until I realized
he was getting mad,
and I didn’t want
to cause trouble
because my Mexican father
would have no problem
belt-whipping me
if he found out I disobeyed
the teacher.

I pretended to struggle,
pronouncing her name
in his blanched,
sterile way,

and then finally
it came, stumbling out
“Roza Linh-deh,”
and I faked smiled
as though I were proud
to have mastered
this deficiency.

He smiled,
genuinely oblivious
to my ruse.

It was one
of the few lessons
I remember from
grammar school.

Dear young ones,

For years
I’ve seen them come
over our borders,
like dirty water
over a dam
and they even don’t try to fit in.

They have their strange language
their awful food,
and they don’t seem afraid
of our laws.

One of them even made
improper sexual advances
on your aunt,
my wife.

They come over here
and use our resources,
the ones your father,
and my father,
and my father’s father,
built
and they squander them,

but they don’t care
they just want a better life for
themselves.

I want to tell them
to go back where they came from,
but I know that is not right
because this world belongs
to everyone.

So, let us open our land
and ourselves to them.
Perhaps all these things
that worry me
will not come to pass.

Do not fear the white man,
he will not hurt us.

your loving uncle,

Ignacio
February 1, 1848

The conquerors
came to my mother’s door,
kicked it in
and invited us
to accept Jesus
at the tip
of a sword.

What could she do?
They were on a quest,
a holy mission
guided by The Great Commission
and imperialist avarice.

Subjugate,
rinse,
and repeat.

With each new soul,
each hungry, crying mouth,
with every generation,
the original sin
was watered down,
until eventually
there were enough
mestizos
that they qualified
for their own
ethnic checkbox,
their own profile-able
category.

Fast forward
centuries and continents
later…
what is your race?

Father was
a Spanish rapist
a Christian murderer.

Mother was
a humble Indio,
a surviving stoic.

I am not half-White.
I am not half-Indigenous.

I am mixed
and troubled
by my father’s cruelty,
humbled
by my mother’s strength.

My blood is
impure,
and so is
my race.