“[...]our names this country’s wood 
for the fire my people my people 
the long years we’ve survived the long 
years yet to come I see you map 
my sky the light your lantern long 
ahead & I follow I follow” 
 
- From ‘​If They Come for Us​’ by Fatimah Asghar 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Author’s Note 
 
In this chapbook-length poetry and prose collection, I take on a multi-genre approach to dissect and 
understand the first-generation experience through the themes of immigrant child guilt complex, 
family, socio-political influences, financial dispair, identity crisis, and realization. I believe that to 
understand myself and my surroundings, I have to express myself through multiple genres to inhabit 
all the spaces and forms that I have been told not to inhabit from an early age. These words from 
others fostered the “I can do it, too. Watch me do it all” mentality. The decision of including poetry, 
fiction, and non-fiction in this project stemmed from how interdisciplinary and expansive the 
experience of being first-generation in the United States feels like. My experience differs greatly from 
someone of another ethnic/racial descent, yet, I think a commonality is a duality. The duality and 
doubts of language, of belonging, of being “too much” or “too little” of that ethnic/racial identity, of 
codeswitching, and many other facets. Yet, within that duality, first-generation identifiées inhabit a 
plurality of “personas” and are exposed to the harsh realities of life at an earlier age as you will see in my 
work. 
 
One of the most visible stylistic characterizations in my poems is the shift from a collective “we” to “I.” 
The collective “we,” is describing many groups of people: my family, women of color, and the Latinx 
diaspora as seen in ‘When The Hate Comes.’ For me, the shift from “we” to “I,” serves as a lens 
zooming into a marginalized, poorly represented group and “zooming out” into a wide long shot 
where the speaker comes to a realization of their position, and finally, into a close-up shot where the 
speaker accepts their role. My fiction piece, “The Architects” touches on the brutality that comes with 
being exposed to the dualities that reside within Mexico. Throughout the process of this project, 
brutality and personas became prominent, such as in “​Ten-Years-Old at the Office”  ​ where I tell the 
story of myself realizing the brutality of the immigration process and of being an interpreter at an age 
where childhood should be primal, not the political landscape of the nation she is growing up in. In 
my non-fiction piece, ‘​Letter to You, Mama,’ ​resurfaces the themes of guilt and violence in a way that 
torments the speaker’s mind of blaming herself for stripping her mother of education, of everything 
the speaker is experiencing but her mother couldn’t due to emigrating.  
 
The process of creating this collection furthered my understanding of poetics and all the powerful 
mechanisms used to tell a story to spread a message to readers. Despite the periods of writer's block and 
struggle with being creative during such strenuous times, I am proud of all that I have written and 
learned about my writing style during my fabrication of my Honors Capstone project.  
 
 
Part I: Beginnings 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A Portrait of Mama and Papa 
  
At age 32, Mama would have to stretch $20 for a week in the city of sinful heatwaves and superfluous 
neon lights across the never-ending black strip of entertainment and intoxication. 
  
At age 30, on some days, Papa would leave at 7 a.m., returning with a $100 check, wondering how the 
amount would last two weeks for his two daughters and wife. 
  
(Two girls groggily wake  up to place their clammy hands on their parents cheeks.) 
  
Mama became a businesswomen-stay-at-home mom, stocking up on Pampers, Ziploc bags, 
Fabuloso®, necessities consumed by the ethnic enclave of Boricuas, Guatemalans, and Mexicanas in 
the apartment complex. 
  
Her business resided in her youngest's stroller basket on the way to drop her eldest at first grade, 
expanding her clientele through the parents of her daughter's friends, making a hundred dollars stretch 
to multiple hundreds. 
  
(The daughters made friends through talk of Disney TV shows and babbles of 
strung-together-constant-vowels bursts.) 
  
Papa became a salesman of pirated DVDs-not advised for anyone, much less for an ​inmigrante​. From 
seeing his wife’s efforts, he contributed by making a profit off movies his roofing co-workers raved 
about--black and white films from Mexico’s Golden Age of cinema,  Iñárritu’s “​Amores Perros​,” and 
Disney’s animated films for their children. 
  
His side hustle placed in under the shade. His day job placed him under the scorching sun, darkening 
his light olive complexion by three shades, the degrees above 15 feet increasing from the sun rays 
reflection off tar-colored shingles. 
  
(The imagination of worlds, creation of words, and finding rolly-pollies were priority to the little 
ones.) 
  
In the afternoons, the Franklin’s and worry were unknown. With Gerber’s Strawberry Apple flavored 
Puffs scattered across the high chair of the infant, the 6-year-old playing “hot tortilla” with her 
teething sister’s bursts of contagious chuckles echoing across the living room, Mama and Papa watched 
their girls who did not know of currency.) 
 
 
 
 
 
Bilingual Baby 
To have two languages in your mind,  
is to live in two worlds 
 
 
To sit in front of a speech therapist, having   
them  eradicate your stutter and practicing  To have Mama ask, “​Que dice?​” 
the “-gh” in tough  when  my  friend  came  running  up  the 
  concrete  stairs,  breathlessly  asking  if  I 
To  no  longer  taking  naps  in  the  day  wanted to play 
because  of  my  native-English  speaking 
friends  invited  me  to  play  where  I   
submerged  myself  in  the hard consonants  To  spending  my  four  quarters  on 
and non-visual pronunciations  SkippyJon  Jones  to  later  practice  reading 
  the  sentences  with  Mama  after  my  bath 
To speaking strictly English at school,   and translating the sentences for her 
slowly  ingesting  the  world  of  continuous   
assessment and grammar corrections  To  practicing  rolling  my  rrrrrr’s  in  c​ arro 
and earning a gold star as my reward when  with  Mama  at  the dining table and seeing 
excelling at spelling tests  her  berry-stained  lips curve into a smile as 
  my reward 
To  being  a  kindergartener,  using  my  $1   
that Mama gave to exchange into quarters  To  watch  E​ l  Chavo  del  Ocho  ​on  Sunday 
to  buy  stickers  during  lunch,  leaving  my  mornings eating toasted oil-drizzled tortilla 
greasy, American cheese pizza to gaze over  triangles  dressed  in  slightly-piquant 
the bookfair  tomato salsa and q​ ueso fresco 
   
To watching baby Looney Tunes at 7 a.m.  To  joyfully  asking  Mama  what  words 
with Mama as bowls of Cheerios lay in our  meant  in  Spanish,  sitting  stomach  down 
laps,  understanding  the  toddlers  through  with  my  arms  supporting  my  chin, 
their expressions like Tom and Jerry  distantly listening to Papa singing along to 
  his beloved Argentinian rock ballads in the 
To have Mama look at me with an   kitchen.  To  hours  later,  hearing  Mama’s 
astonished countenance 14 years   fairytales  flow  into  my  ears  before resting 
later saying that I sounded   my  eyes,  leaving  my  brain  to  process  my 
like a parrot, speaking Arabic  newly learned words 
 
 
 
To have Wernicke's area in the temporal lobe of the left hemisphere, interpreting the meaning of 
English 
then shifting 
to Broca’s area in the frontal lobe where the words are verbalized 
 
Letter to You, Mama 
  
Dear Mama, 
  
I am writing because they told me not to write about immigrant stories, where brown bodies 
are accepted to be exploited, but not seen. You are not fluent in English, but you can read a significant 
amount of the language that originated from the colonial powers that caused brown bodies to flee and 
be stripped of life. I may share this with you one day. But for now, I’ll let the words sink into the page 
like our ancestors were sunk into submission.  
You crossed the border with me developing in the womb. Together we experience the feeling 
of living within unknown territory that should transform our beings. You risked your life by sitting 
stiffly as instructed to, wedged on the floor between the dusty, van seats with a blanket covering any 
remnants of you. Mama, you were wedged between van seats to survive in the land of the free, wedged 
between the U.S.-Mexico border at the inspection line waiting for the ​coyote's​ approval, for your 
children to be wedged in between two worlds, two languages, two homes.  
           When I was three, you took us to Mexico so the family could meet me, and it was 15 years later 
that I visited again alone where I was conscious of where you grew up. Perla, my maternal cousin, 
attended the same p​ repa​ as you, and so I accompanied her to the campus that stood out with its 
towering mango, changunga, and lime trees, overlooking the white-green combination of the 
Tetris-like arranged rectangles. From the outside, the campus resembled my high school open campus, 
but from the interior, the blank walls and rows of desks in front of a whiteboard resembled the 
stability of the nation. The foundation was present but the resources and funding were not. Stepping 
foot on the sidewalks and hallways where you walked two and a half decades prior flooded me with 
emotions of what it means to the product of two people that fled their countries to give their children 
everything they could not receive. I tried to teleport myself to ’91, where imagined a replica of myself 
laughing with friends with books in hands, discussing what plans they had later that day. I asked 
myself hypothetical questions such as, “What if you had not left Mexico and I had attended this school 
with Perla?” and “Why did you leave this place, it’s home, isn’t it?”  
I wanted so badly to know what it was like to live in Mexico as a teenager amidst the violent inflation 
of unemployment, drug cartels, and instability. I wanted to feel instability. I felt guilty for having 
escaped your experiences so I wouldn’t have to.   
I vividly remember those afternoons when Papa took me to my favorite park, Nicholas E. 
Flores Jr. Park, for an hour before driving to pick you up from your English class three days a week. 
Papa would play his Argentine rock ballads as I hummed along and made up my lyrics to the stories of 
lost love and distance. For a 6-year-old, an hour feels like decades unless they fully invested in a task, so 
when I got to see your black leather bag where you placed your workbooks that swayed against your 
forearm and chest, I skipped towards you. I interlocked my hand around your waist, feeling the 
warmth radiating from your skin but coldness from our differences. How was it possible for a 
6-year-old to know a couple hundred more words than her mother? It seems unreal to me now. 
Through my completion of each academic year, our bond grew and so did our gap in communication. 
I was immersed in English through school and my knowledge of Spanish seemed overshadowed by 
how much content I was being exposed to from school. I wonder if that’s how it must feel to see your 
young grow and, at a certain point feel overshadowed by their exposure. Now, our daughter-mother 
bond is the strongest it’s ever been, but the distance is still present. I feel the distance from our gap in 
educational achievements and in our language barrier as I occasionally mispronounce words or stutter 
in Spanish, feeling like I am floating in between both worlds and cannot land on the right translation.  
Now at 20 years old, being the first in our family to go to college, I continue to think about 
these moments we have lived together and,  at times, I feel as if I’m going to continue floating until I 
leave this world. I feel as if I have stripped out of a career and that I should be pursuing what you 
would’ve studied if you had the opportunity. But I know that you carried me across the desert and 
inspections and adversities to become a citizen, which you became 10 years ago, and to see your 
children live their lives as they wish. Perhaps we will all float for the rest of our lives, but at least we are 
not sinking. 
Part II: First Steps 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Guava Games 
  
The leaves protect the skin of calloused hands 
that nurture and profit other’s lands. 
  
Sore hands braid long, unruly hair  
that serves as a pillow during the moonlight hours. 
  
The moon poses with caution as she hears 
men cross rivers and love whispers. 
  
The love of a mother makes her the last one to 
turn off the lights and dream of the sweet guava 
that she has been craving.  
  
The mother pulls the blanket over her daughters 
frame to admire her plump, pink 
lips that have savored the pink juice.  
  
Then, the mother remembered the day she saw 
her daughter with the widest smile she’s seen yet  
on the day went into the city to sell at the market. 
The daughter pointed and said,  
“mira, Mami, se parece como una guayaba”.  
  
The mother kissed her daughter’s 
cheek before lying next to her, dreaming of 
a bowl of vibrant fruits in the middle of their table. 
  
She craves the glossy salmon-colored lipstick. 
She desires the rosy tints to paint her cheeks.  
She wants the peach dress inside of windows for her slender figure.  
  
The mother asks herself what she did to be stuck inside their game.  
A game filled with growing flames. 
  
Flames that leave pain, ashy legs, irritated eyes, hearts beating.  
It beats with fear, urgency, and hope. 
  
Like the vena cava that delivers to the heart, 
The mother will deliver to her daughter’s start. 
 
 
Ten-Years-Old at the Office 
 
We 
frequently visited  
the immigration lawyer in a dusty, 
neutral-toned office under the Nevadan heat.  
My pigtails sashayed through the dry air. The dust rained down,  
glowing in the sun rays. With Mama’s words in my head, “te portas bien,”  
I instinctively sat at one of the curved, blue plastic chairs, facing the lines of framed 
 diplomas and foreign landscapes. With faltering patience, I looked over the door frame,  
calculating my parent’s captivation in the conversation and tip-toed to the attention-deprived 
desks.  
 
Folders, paper clips, staplers, and mini sticky papers sat at every desk.  
These supplies were a part of Papa’s immigration process.  
 
The folders held Papa’s information in one place. 
The paper clips grouped separate phases of the immigration process. 
The staplers united a stack of Papa’s story together for permanence. 
The sticky, square sheets filled with reminders of Papa’s case. 
 
Even from the outside, the building was lifeless, while the inside consisted of people’s lives. People 
that filled paperwork for weeks upon weeks, waiting for results. 
 
From the outside, my eyes darted upwards, chin following with lower lip bitten-my habit of 
concentration- while the inside of my brain processed the English into Spanish, waiting for the most 
accurate translation that a 10-year-old mind was capable of.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Two Years Into Teenagehood 
 
Poofy, exaggerated, frilly dresses was what I swore I’d never have and I didn’t.  
Long-sleeves, dance practice bruises, Angela Davis essays, and an overloaded backpack was what I 
experienced two years into teenagehood.  
Fully fluent in Ingles y Español, yet fully capable of being forgetful in both.  
My birthday wishes went beyond a new car: attending my father's naturalization Oath ceremony;  
mastering the art of not staining my jeans of menstrual blood; accepting the hundreds of thin, dark 
hairs that covered my limbs; hoping I could provide more financially for my family, rather than 
performing pirouettes in front of technologically obsessed teens with popcorn butter staining their 
black mirrors in the gym, while my parents spend hours with bent backs repairing wooden fence posts 
and scrubbing day-old milk stains on marble countertops to support their children's wishes. 
 
None of my wishes came true.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Part III: Reflections 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The Architects 
Now, at 22 years old, that afternoon when Hugo and I planned on playing with our figurines 
all night long turned into one that shaped both our lives. Living in the same place up until we left for 
university felt like reliving that night over and over, but our lives reset.  
I remember lying on top of Hugo and I’s hill, stretching my hands unto the sky. “When I leave 
Uruapan I’m going to become an architect. I’m going to be the best architect there has ever been, 
Hugo, the greatest.” 
Hugo turned to face me. “What are you going to build, Andres?” 
“Houses, restaurants, hotels, a life.” 
“I’m going to be like my mom. I’m going to be the ​jefe ​ of the largest avocado farm in southern 
Mexico- of this farm. Can you imagine that?” Hugo replied. 
“Your mom has a big job. You want that?” 
“Yes. You’re going to build all those buildings, but I’m going to build an empire, you’ll see! 
One day it’ll be the biggest avocado farm the world’s ever seen,” Hugo said.  
I nodded and jumped to me feet. “One day we’ll be the greatest architects there has ever been. 
Come on let’s race! First one to the front of your house buys the other a popsicle.” 
We stood up from the lime-green grass, gazing straight up at the clear blue skies that contrasted 
vibrantly with the 15-acreage farm of ripening avocados. Our spot overlooked a square of 
symmetrically lined rows of small trees, decorated with hanging fruit that looked like dark green tears 
falling onto a soft carpet of grass. The Marez family had owned the Don Hugo Produce company 
since before the economic crash, which meant seasonal ups and downs. But, despite the times Hugo 
saw his Mama sitting at the dining table for hours crunching the numbers while looking outside the 
window to the scenery of the farm, Hugo knew that those hours meant more than the numbers. Those 
longing looks meant she thought about their newly-formed and reduced family after Hugo’s dad had 
passed. Hugo’s dad was killed by vigilantes on his way to a business meeting about the distribution of 
the farm’s avocados. Vigilantes​ ​were occasionally disguised as locals to not draw attention to 
themselves, but the locals had endured years of impunity that they knew the inside and outs of their 
strategies. The economic situation was and continues to be fragile, that these vigilantes that are often a 
member of an extremist group see a well-managed car and use it as their entry point to threaten the 
drivers with quotas or their lives.  
Every time I went over to Hugo’s, we would lie on top of the hill that overlooked his family’s 
farm, and sometimes he’d stall to respond. Frequently, he would sit up, admiring his family’s legacy 
with his arms hugging his knees to his chest, his chin rested on a kneecap. In these moments, I knew 
that he was thinking of the times he was on his Papa’s shoulders listening to his Papa's stories of the 
gift that nature gave its people: fertile soil from which life begins.  
Mr. Marez would regularly say, “Sometimes we need to start again, like the soil does after we 
scorch it, to enrichen its nutrients. It makes the soil more rich, resilient, and durable during the rainy 
and hot periods of the year. The soil starts overs and sometimes that is all we need, too. We place our 
roots elsewhere and begin to find our way through the soil until we reach the sky.” 
Hugo and I never fully understood his adult words at the age of 9, but year after year his words 
became ingrained in my mind. Every year I pieced together what he meant and why he said it. Soil and 
flames: simultaneously a beginning and an ending. 
Hugo felt as if he could feel his Papa’s presence when he walked through the dirt rows of their 
farm. Hugo changed when he lost his Papa, he was an observer, not much of a talker, but he never 
hesitated to stand his ground. Hugo was named after Don Hugo and his father. Each day as he helped 
his Mama to tend the fields, his plan of continuing on his grandfather’s legacy became more fruitful as 
he practiced and learned from seeing his mom work everyday.  
Hugo threw his hands in the air. “Ey, cheater!” He sped walked towards me, landing a light 
punch on my shoulder. “You can’t just take two huge steps before we start. ​Tramposo.”​ Hugo heaved 
with his hands firmly pressed against his knee caps, leaving a white abstract shape from where the 
blood had been pushed out when he placed a hand on my should to gain his balance. 
I chuckled, “​Ay, no eso no fue nada​. You just gotta be faster.” I grasped the side of Hugo’s 
shoulder as he started to lean to the side.“Ask your Mama if you can come over my house to eat and 
then I’ll get you your popsicle.” 
“​Si nada​...You think you’re the best at everything, Andres,” Hugo said. 
“Ah, come on! It was just a race, my dad always lets me take two steps forward when we race. 
I’ll try to stop.” I embraced Hugo in a side hug seconds before he took off. 
Hugo ran into his house, leaving a trail of wet soil on the white tiles. 
“​Vente, vamonos​! My mom said yes,” Hugo shouted, hugging me tightly while jumping. 
Mrs. Marez leaned against the door frame, chuckling at our embrace. “​Hola, mijo,​ ” she walked 
towards me and loosened her knees to hug me fully. She crouched down to see us at an eye-to-eye level 
and held Hugo’s hands, “I want you back here by 7, understood?” 
We nodded their heads and spinned around en route to their other house.  
“I’ll get you back, you’ll see!” Hugo gently slapped my chest before looking down to check his 
shoelaces. I mimicked him.   
“​Con cuidado!​” Mrs. Marez’s shouted, her voice trailing off into the distance, following 
behind Hugo. 
Hugo’s shoes sank into the moist soil as summery heat made the dust seem transparent against 
the homely tones of  plump green flesh from the Marez’ avocados. I placed a firm grip on Hugo’s 
shoulder that turned weak when he darted first, causing my arm to fly back. I stabilized my footing 
before following. The Marez house became smaller and smaller as I turned around, the muted voices 
from between the rows captured my attention. My legs slowly decreased in velocity and I thought 
about Hugo’s new family.  
Hugo has a big family. He lost his Papa but look at all these señores y señoras. They all 
love him and his Mama. They always tell him “mijiito this or Huguito that.” He lost a 
Papa but gained another within his Mama. He lost his Papa but has all these men 
looking after him. He has a Mama that is always with him, he has all these señoras 
caring for him, but he does not see it. He has a Mama. I have a Mama, a Mama that is 
never home.  
 
The humid air massaged my loose, black curls, as each foot step placed me closer to my home. I 
stopped to see the silhouette of the workers as the tangerines and lilacs merged up high with the 
reviving sensation that fresh soil and distilled water created.  
Women and men turned their heads and sent me warm smiles followed by distant “​hola 
mijito’s​” and “​Andres, como has estado, mijo’s?”  
That afternoon we ran past 5 blocks to the front of ​Abarrotes Frutas y Verduras Mago, ​where 
the shop invited welcoming air that ripened the produce by the minute. The shop was fully exposed; 
the red roller shutters hung above our heads as they continued to be enamored by the rows of deep, 
wooden trays of guavas, tomatoes, potatoes, watermelons, mangoes, zucchini-- any fruit or vegetable in 
season.  
My Papa had inherited his mother’s store as he was her only child. I  did not want to follow 
Papa’s footsteps. I wanted to build a life of his own. My Mama worked for the Mexican government 
that called for frequent business trips to Guerrero, Oaxaca, and municipalities within Michoacán. She 
was almost never home. When she was, I was asleep when she arrived or when she had to catch a plane. 
Goodbyes? We rarely had goodbyes.  
Later, I came to know that with the talk of crime rates rising and quotas not being paid to 
violent extremist groups, many owners and farmers had became more cautious of their safety and 
spending.  
Around town I kept hearing of these people, so I asked Papa who they were. He said that he 
didn’t want to worry me, but he said it was better for me to know now rather than before it was too 
late. Papa wanted me to know what has happening and what I should do if I was ever in proximity to a 
situation like that.  
At the age of nine, I knew the vigilantes were bad people who were not be involved with, but 
as I grew up I understood, the bad guys were both the violent groups and the government because they 
were ambitious for power, often meaning money and armed force capabilities to instill fear.. I learned 
that the groups were forcing people to pay them money or else their lives would be in danger. They did 
all that because they wanted to be ​los jefes​. They wanted to get payback for the hurt that they had 
endured as children or even now as adults. By why take out that anger on others?  
Hugo shouted, “Now this is mine,” while throwing guava into the air. He moved from side to 
side along the fruit crates, taunting me. 
I paused, taken about my familiar aromas, “We’re even now.” 
“What’s wrong?” Hugo walked closer and placed a hand on Andres’ shoulders. 
“I smell lavender-Mama’s perfume. Papa didn’t tell me anything about her coming. Can you 
smell it?” 
Hugo gazed over to see me while I walked around the crates. I ran the front of the store to see 
my Papa at the register and my Mama nonchalantly leaning against the door frame that led to their 
house. I paused when I met my Mama’s eyes. Papa was speaking, but the words flew past my ears. 
Mama lit up when she saw me and crouched down in front of me, “Andres, I missed you so much! Ah, 
you’ve already lost two more teeth,” Mama said with tears falling down her cheeks. Her trip had lasted 
three weeks.  
“How long are you here for?” 
“A week, ​ cariño​. You won’t believe all the buildings I saw. I’ll show you the pictures when we 
close, alright? How about we stay up late and build as many puzzles and legos as you want? 
“Hugo gave me a Darth Vader puzzle that I haven’t opened yet because Papa was going to help 
me, but now we can!” 
“That’s perfect. Come on, you two must be hungry. I made your favorite dish.” 
Hugo and I devoured the tilapia, white rice, and sauteed vegetables. After night of reliving that 
afternoon though dreams and nightmares, Hugo, Mama, and I’s conversation was interrupted by 
deep, threatening tones coming from the outside of the house.  
My eyes widened as the voices grew more intense. The chewing stopped, Hugo and I’s eyes 
fixated on each other’s, and our heartbeats accelerated until they morphed into the white noise 
blocking the red noise coming from the outside.  
“We already gave you three fucking weeks. We need the quota. The 7000 pesos now,” a large 
figure dressed in all black, a bandana covering the bottom half of their face, and gun in hands 
demanded.  
“Wait it is not that simple to save that much. We could barely reach 6000,” Papa said. His 
hands were trembling in front of his frame. Mama ran into the shop and came to an abrupt stop when 
she saw the men with guns. Papa walked over to whisper in Mama’s ear. She nodded and composed 
herself when she saw Hugo and I behind the curtain, giving us a sickly smile and proceeded to the 
office.  
“Go to the back of the house and stay there until I come and get you. You understand?” Mama 
said to us and speed walked through the curtain with a manila folder in her trembling hands.  
The glances that my best friend and I gave each other mirrored the uncertainty that dominated 
the afternoon. The voices of the men that held guns no longer rung in our ears until minutes later the 
faint words of “I have a family. P-Please don’t do this. We gave you what you wanted” and “ You 
know what happens to those that pay late. We warned you,” meant uncertainty for a lifetime.  
Hugo dug his nails into his palm, leaving a row of crescent indentations. I recall hitting the 
back of my head against the house when we heard three gunshots ricochet off the walls and pain 
penetrated our hearts. I ran into the house and stopped when I heard, “Get the gasoline and let’s leave. 
Hurry,” I peeked through the curtain and saw two bodies on the floor. The smell of lavender, blood, 
and potent cologne from the men in black left me lightheaded. It grew even worse when Ifollowed the 
faint breaths coming from Mama. Her eyes blinked rapidly, her right arm extended to caress my cheek 
while the other applied pressure to the wound in her abdomen.  
“Look at me, Andres. ​Cariño​, your Papa and I love you…so much,” Mama said through forced 
breaths. “I’ll see all your projects...from above.”  
Mama slightly turned her head in Hugo’s direction, extending her arm towards him along with 
a slight nod and bloodied-teeth smile. Hugo nodded, without saying a word, it was as if he had read 
what she wanted to say, but couldn’t. Mama let go of my cold, trembling hand and mouthed ‘I love 
you’, as I slowly stood.  
“Andres, we have to go! Now!” Hugo shouted, with a tight grip on my hand.  
I heard voices and screams nearing. Hugo’s hand latched onto my wrist. My eyes were still 
fixated on the woman and man on the floor- the two people that had built my life.  
“Everything they built is gone. I-I don-what are we going to do” I asked, sounding as if 
whispers were escaping through holes in his mouth.  
“Not everything. We have to go before they see us, please.” 
The screams drowned out, but still rang in the people’s heads and my pounding heart, as each 
step set foot onto the fertile soil of the farm.  
Years later I was able to describe that night from my memories and stories from the locals. The 
putrid culmination of burning produce, flesh, plastic bags, beam scales, and plans invaded my nostrils. 
The sky resembled a tranquil tone of blue with violent strokes of watered-down black watercolor 
paint. The popsicle that we had bet over suffocated in the freezer as the cool and warm atmospheres 
fused. Each drip of heavenly-manufactured, sugared liquid slid down to a puddle of syrupy tears 
mirroring, yet contrasting the uniform, rigid hanging avocados.  
Hugo and I’s fingers maintained intertwined. Each time I attempted to let go of his protective 
grip, it caused him to apply more pressure. That pressure held me together, in a way, it made me feel 
like I lost the numbness within my limbs. That pressure made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I still had 
someone that cared for me, like I was still wanted, like I was not burning within. I followed behind 
trying to keep the same pace as Hugo’s strides, but my eyes became blurred. Hugo stopped to look at 
me. I felt as the hot, dense tears slid off my cheeks then onto his hand where they landed to create a 
puddle on the land. My knees wobbled. My eyes rolled back where the tips of my black curls glistened 
with sweat droplets that framed my forehead. My weight crashed into Hugo’s where my body slid off 
his and my hands met the humid, black dirt. I found the strength within me to get on my hands and 
knees, but fell back down into the soil. With entended hands, my tendons protruded as I constricted 
my fingers into fists. My heatless hands felt relief as they made contact with the warmth radiating from 
the soil. The soil aggressively oozed from the sides of my fists until nothing was left except thin, flat 
slabs of nature’s gift in between crevices. ​Why me? Why now?  
As each blob of soil oozed, my vision parallelled a heavy rainstorm scene-where people view 
out a rain-dropped window to see shapes and colors in a fuzzy haze.  
My fists left imprints in the soil with each punch I gave. A lump gained volume within my 
throat and my chest faltered up and down followed by continuous delayed breaths.​  ​Hugo grabbed the 
sides of my face and pressed his forehead to mine.  
“Andres, look at me. Look at me. Remember how one day you’re going to become the greatest 
architect and one day I’ll work this land? We already live in our own empire, you see. Look around. 
We just have to keep going, keep building, keep building, keep building.”  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
When The Hate Comes 
  
“When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best…It’s coming from all over South and 
Latin America.” 
- Donald Trump’s Presidential Announcement Campaign, June 2015 
  
They threatened us off our land plots 
and we forgot our mother tongues 
  
like, obedient citizens, we left, 
leaving our maize, squash, textiles, 
advanced systems until we could 
see nothing else but squares of sienna 
  
until we could hear nothing else but 
pats of soles on scrolls of sand or 
the bird’s delighting over their young 
  
when it is They who have stripped our 
young’s delight, but who is to blame? 
Us or Them? what is land but land? 
  
I whisper ​my land my land my land 
and it's synonymous with my country, 
vacancy, 
foreignness 
  
We build. I build. 
They take it away 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Part IV: Realizations 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Our Worth  
  
Part I 
To the men that want the floors swept for them before dinner, 
even though their boots trudged mud in, 
it must make you feel 5 inches taller for every demand, huh? 
For all you that say you’re going to pick up the kids, 
but your eyes follow the 14-year-old teens thighs, 
walking back from Catholic school, 
would you do that with your 6-year-old daughter? 
For you dad, 
that told me filmmaking wasn’t a “good career,” 
money doesn’t buy a clean conscious, does it? 
For my aunts, 
that clutched my jawline and inspected my features, 
telling me to pluck a few eyebrow hairs and apply mascara and 
that if I’d “dress” up a little more I’d get a boyfriend, 
what’s the point of applying makeup for two hours like your daughters 
when it’s eventually going to fade anyways? 
To my white peers, 
that laughed about my hairy arms and lack of eloquence, 
did you your words ever circulate your minds when 
buying a shade darker of foundation or 
your retorts about wishing to speak Spanish 
to flirt with the “exotic” waiters when ordering your meal in Cancun? 
  
 
Part II 
To the mirror that stares back, 
how does it feel like to get spat words of disgust? 
“too many” or barely-there curves don’t measure cm. 
  
To the eyes that see all, 
how does one accept all that we were forcibly given? 
bodies constantly spotten, bodies eventually forgotten 
  
To the fingers that touch scarred skin, 
why is it easier to pick rather than trick our minds? 
the skin remembers and rejects, so let us train 
  
To the lips that seal and reveal, 
what pleasure pours from a two-sided tongue? 
let us devour the little devil and feast 
  
To the ancestors that conquered, 
did our lineage worry about thickness and age marks? 
no, they sliced through all that like machetes cutting cane. 
No hesitation, what happened, happened. 
 
Reading Your Words 
-For Elizabeth Acevedo 
 
On an early, cool, June morning, linger the words, 
“Just because your father's present, doesn't mean he isn't absent.” 
 
In the back seat of the car, I see our masked parents with our 
orders in their hands as Papa enters to deliver us our food. 
 
On a late July evening, coming back from  
the lake, your words circle through my mind. 
 
The Latin references, the Spanish accents, 
the heat of plump, red rice fills the page.  
 
On a humid August night, we sit outside listening to 
“Son de La Negra,” as violins sing and laugh lines protrude.  
 
We live off acts of services, a love that I didn’t know existed, 
a love that I thought was dismissive, but it's not.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Two Decades of Life 
  -A​ fter Ocean Vuong’s ‘Immigrant Haibun’ 
  
Every year I live another year on this Earth I collect more questions than answers. Last week I went home before 
Election Week, with my mind clouded with grad school apps, growing up, moving abroad, failure, decisions, 
time. I am reminded of how my living situation since I started college, has placed me on a pedestal. I've chosen 
to be placed on a pedestal that I don’t want to stand on but need to to succeed.  It’s America's system, isn’t it? 
  
  * 
The dorm room that I shared was larger than my room at home. My sophomore suite shielded privacy from 
shouts in Spanish. Third-year’s apartment's first floor more spacious than ours combined. Is it wrong of me to 
wish we could all live in the apartment? To be able to give my mom a well-designed kitchen where she doesn’t 
have to place the pots in the oven. Here, each child would have their own room. Here, we wouldn't hear our 
parent's arguments. 
Here, I would be able to see them. 
  
* 
I imagine my siblings running up the stairs, slamming the door behind them, setting up the server with their 
friends to play until dark. I can smell the blend of tomatillos, garlic, salt, and onions merging, being poured into 
a bowl to be served on top of ​pupusas​. I envision the five of us watching “The Polar Express,” as half of us scroll 
our screens, completely ignoring each other's presence that one day we’ll regret. 
I ask myself: does struggle morph into comfort? 
  
* 
I’m reading the room. 
Reading my parents faces:   
Nothing. If only…