I’m told to be proud of my Mexican-americanness
To use it in the work
But maybe my work will always be bland and confused
Because I do not know where the Mexican begins or where the American ends
Is my mexicanness the bangs I cut in my bathroom with craft scissors
is it my father dreaming of a car he will never be able to buy in his name
Is it the lime green pants and zebra print shirt my mother makes my sister wear to the party
Is it the endless “when I was in Mexico with your Abuelita…” stories my mother never seems to run out of
Is it the way my father tells me if he had the money, knew the right people, or had the citizenship I wouldn’t be fighting for my dreams all alone
or is it this
the constant wondering if its all “too much” and “not enough” all at the same time
-Annette
