Gray skies and drizzle. I can’t see the Manhattan skyline from here. Leo from Guerrero at the convenience store made me an egg, ham, and cheese sandwich worth 2.50 dollars but priceless in flavour. The cholula sauce sponsored by NAFTA was four dollars too expensive.
I deceive myself into thinking this reminds me of home. Or at least, of my other home. There’s no avocado or chipotle in this breakfast that can just be called Mexican because of the hands that created it. Besides, you are not here. There’s no good morning kiss that wants to wake me up because you’re hungry. And there is no post-breakfast sex.
Have I lost myself in my narcissistic narrative and documented alien discourse? Have I finally surrendered to their elusive neocolonial scholarship?
I’m just another part of the spectrum. I’m just another dreamer caught up in tales of oppression and liberation. Here I go:
(Un) Spoken Word
To the freedom fighter, the terrorist, and the street fighter
To my brother, my sister, my father, mi madre.
I came all the way from the south, from your third world
My hometown, mi casa, mi Mexico lindo
Yeah I can shake my ass and do a chimi chimi
You can call me latina, mexicana, bonita.
My spoken word may not have rythmn
Yet you still will listen
Because my accent is wicked.
I am what makes your country a multicultural mosaic
I am your majority minority
I have no vote and no voice
But I can see, and I am pissed.
Industrialization equals exploitation
Mining development is not indigenous progress
And globalization is killing my fucking culture.
That didn’t rhyme
And I don’t give a shit
Because my people is crying
And their people are dying.
This is not a revolution, uprising or rally
This is my own liberation, my self-emancipation