Taco Bell
I am Taco Bell.
I am a diluted version of all the things Mexico has to offer.
“Where are you from” the question I fear the most.
If I say I’m American I’ll hear laughs and jokes about my bushy eyebrows and my Hispanic features
“Uy se cree guera”.
If I say I’m Mexican the Mexicans will ask if I was born in Mexico and suddenly I’m a “fake Mexican”.
I’m a crispy taco with no mouth to call home.
Crispy tacos are just like me you see, they have been assimilated to fit a white pallet; just like I have assimilated to fit the white pallet.
I went from a soft shell to a hard one.
When I was younger I would get made fun of for my bushy eyebrows,a feature give to me by the person I most love— yet it’s the feature I most hate.
Aztec blood running through my veins yet I have to act like it’s okay when I hear jokes about Mexican running from la migra.
As if deportation doesn’t separate familias.
Going through the Taco Bell drive through is a hell of a lot harder when your accent is thicker than mole.
I am the Taco Bell drive through that sometimes doesn’t comprehend my own language.
Stuttering and forgetting that my roots run deeper than borders.