Unseasoned

The melting pot stopped melting because water can only boil so much when there are no additives;

I am not an addict, but I know addition.

I can churn out chorizo like your ancestors could churn butter.

Don’t tell me what is sufficient because sufficiency does not equal validity –

I am not here for your validation.

The only imposters here are your taste buds pretending to be cultured.

My ancestors’ nimble fingers swam the navy waters and set a legacy for every Usnavi born en la Yuma;

Your ancestors conquered those lands with their roughened bloodied hands and named their spawns after beauty they appropriated from us.

The melting pot has long since boiled over because there is an overflow of bitterness – the hate is strong in this one, they whisper

They fear what was once the land of dreams and prosperity;

The West is not the gold mine but the blue cross and the South is the red line and the Capitol is the national hideout.

My rice and beans are tasteless. I have been stripped of identification at the borders.

My only coronas left are the ones sitting in Spain’s collection as a prize for their conquistas.

My bare feet climb hills every day as a physical manifestation of the struggles we faced to pursue a great beyond.

Tell me why I should remain calm

Because all I see is unseasoned logic.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country

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