i even went to college. but i studied African American Studies which is not
The Law or The Medicine or The Business. my mom still loved me.
so i invented her sadness & asked her to hold it like a bouquet of fake flowers.
she laughed through it all. i didn’t understand. wasn’t immigration a burden?
what about the life you left, i asked my mom. she planted flowers in the backyard.
only house on the block with flowers. foreclosure came like a cold wind.
it took her flowers. but that was a season. new house, bigger garden.
mijo, go get some tomates from the yard is something my mom really says.
i tried to be a good Mexican son. went to a good college & learned depression
isn’t just for white people. i tried to be a good Mexican son, but not that hard.
sometimes, my mom’s texts get dusty before i answer. even worse, i never share
the Jesus Christ memes she sends me on Facebook. if there is a hell,
i’m going express. i hope they have wifi. i hope i remember to share
my mom’s Jesus Christ memes. maybe god believes in second chances.
but i doubt it. i tried to be a good Mexican son. i came home for the holidays
still a disappointment. no million-dollar job or grandkids. Spanish deteriorating.
English getting more vulgar. i tried to be a good Mexican son, but i kept fucking
it up. my mom still loves me, her bad Mexican son, even when i can’t understand
her blessings. she makes me kiss her on the cheek before i leave the house.
she tells me to quiet down when she’s watching her novelas. she asks me
if i’m okay. she tells me i’m getting so skinny & i need to eat more frijoles.
she has the pot ready. i try to be a good Mexican son, but all i know how to do
is sit down for a good second & leave before a bad one.
