Half Truths
I didn’t know I spent most of my youth telling half
Truths. I was born under your Floridian sun
Had my first crush witnessed by North Carolina’s Mountains
Held my first library card under the guidance of Tennessee snow
And yet, I’ve always told you I was Mexican
But wasn’t that the answer you wanted?
No. It was the answer you gave me.
But your answer never changed when you heard
You’re not a true Mexican until you can hold your spice
And speak Spanish. You knew I cried, biting jalapenos
And you knew I didn’t speak Spanish, but never smiled
When others said I had an American accent.
Still, you told me I couldn’t be white without an ‘h’ in my name
And I know my color can’t let you label me as passing, like my father
But there was a time when he wasn’t passing. A time when you let
A mother’s accent anoint him as half white and good enough to be a janitor.
And you taught his father the song We Don’t Speak Spanish Here
So how can I learn the lyrics of Latin language when you limit the chorus?
And I still love the textured taste of cut steak and mashed potatoes
You can still hear my hum of ordering hamburgers with fries
I’ve seen you loosen your lips about sun-kissed skin
I’ve heard you hold your tongue over untaught syllables
But you keep quiet when your claimed child peeks
Eyes wandering side to side to the clicking of clocks
Are you legal?