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.