Only you Pocha, only you
Chicana
Mexican-American
Third generation
Granddaughter of the Yaqui Tribe
Them: “What part of Mexico are you from?”
You: “Ummm…Don’t know!”
You’ve been here your whole life.
So have your parents. And your grandparents too.
Only you Pocha, only you.
Your family didn’t come across on a boat through Ellis Island.
Your family didn’t cross the border.
Hell, you and your people have been here so long…
Maybe the border crossed you.
Not Mexican enough.
Not American enough.
Them: “You don’t speak Spanish?”
Me: “Does Spanglish count?”
Mexicans pity you.
Gringos are in awe of your accent-less English.
Somos pobres, but not the dirty kind.
The proud kind, you know?
The kind that would rather eat dirt than beg.
We’ll work ten jobs, or work in a field breaking our backs and breathing in pesticides all day before we hold up a fucking card board sign asking for handouts.
That’s the Mexicana in your girl. Trabajadora.
That’s the India in you chica. Too much pride.
Mexican food that’s more American than Chipotle.
Who ever heard of a zucchini in enchiladas anyway?
Only you Pocha. Only you.
