Dear Xenophobes,

I believe your fear of me and of the subtle differences and intricacies of humans that do not look like you stem from something as simple as a misunderstanding. My language is lost in translation to you; you don’t know me and you don’t want to.

You can’t comprehend that someone with darker or lighter skin than you, someone with more vibrant or duller eyes than you, someone with darker or lighter hair than you, someone that speaks differently than you, could ever be the same as you. You wonder where I am from, who I am, and how that defines me. Or you don’t wonder at all, and your interest in me is superficial, lacking breadth and depth. My story is inconsequential to you. But the story of where I am from is worth telling, even if it falls on decidedly deaf ears.

 

I am from animal print blankets,

from Suavitel and lavender oil.

I am from the inflatable pool in our backyard.

(Blue, shimmering,

smelling of bleach)

I am from the wishing dandelions,

the oak tree,

who left nothing but a stump

and memories of shady summers.

 

I'm from Christmas Eve celebrations and hearty meals,

from Sesaria and Socorro.

I'm from the ambitious

and the determined,

from “Respeta a tus mayores,” and

“De Gracias a Dios.”

I'm from holy Sundays

and love thy neighbor,

Christian hymns sung off key.

 

I'm from California and rural México,

tamales and chicken cooked 100 different ways.

From the family ranch my mother ran from, the roaring river and weak walls my father crossed and defeated.

 

I am from cardboard boxes in shelves,

littered with memories and mementos,

dusting and fraying at the edges,

but priceless nonetheless.

I am from immigrants,

a tale of two countries,

drowning in heritage and weaving new traditions into the

fabric of my family.

 

Where are you from?