Reservoir

We grew up on the other side of affection

where the grass was green and the trees

were comrades in arms protecting the lot

but the water was scarce and the light was

shadowed by the thick arms of protection

I love you was like the after taste

in your mouth after you ate a sour dulce

hugs and warm embraces were like scrubbing

clotting toilets - hurry up and get it over with

ya andale after snapping the roof of

grandmother’s mouth and the tip of her tongue

so violently that the lights flickered, a florescent

bulb near the verge of shattering  

Pero quién crees que eres

but who do you think you are

her hands on her hips looking like a water jug

ready to overflow with water

the water does not come

from abuelita’s cool stance the water does not

come forth from her reservoir of a body

giver of life and protection where is the water

thirsty like the half marathon sprinters

running for childless mothers and fathers

get me to the finish line where adoption

is afforded and homeless children go home

make a pact to grow them up on this side of

affection where the grass is green and the trees

are comrades in arms protecting the lot and

the water is plentiful because our reservoir

of a body tips over and pours into thirsty

mouths of our blood or of another 

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Don't Change the Recipe

Last weekend I was at my cousin’s baby shower, which was held outside in the 100 degree Texas heat. My sweat must have radiated in a way that was far superior to the other sweat being emitted because I was pinpointed out of the entire crowd and asked, “What did you expect?  Air condition?  We don’t all have that luxury.”  This would not have bothered me if it didn’t always happen this way.  In my family, going to college brands you in an unfamiliar and blistering way.

My uncle’s shirt was saturated with rancid sweat.  Puddles gathered under his armpits and hula hoops of salt circled his chest.  I narrowed my eyes and with all my educated sass I rebutted, “I grew up without air condition.  I can handle the heat probably better than you can. What’s your excuse?”  You see, your family doesn’t remember the girl you were before the college education, they only envision the woman they think you morphed into.  Perhaps it’s fear that you’ll lose your cultural roots. 

Going to college means that you may have to spend the rest of your life trying to prove that you still love tortillas and can still make a mean chile verde.  Whether my family will ever be convinced that I’m still a Latina remains to be seen.  They will forever ask, “¿Pos que le hechaste, mija?” (What did you put in it?) Referring to the dish that I’ve cooked the same way for last 20 years, except now I make it with a college education so it must contain some foreign ingredient.

The following article is a great one as we realize that our Latina nerdiness doesn’t make us outsiders.  It completely launches us forward.  And because we’re educated, we know better than to change a one hundred year old receta.  Am I wrong?

Awesome article found here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/erika-l-sanchez/the-origin-of-a-latina-ne_b_1589666.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false