“Mama”
i’m sitting on my mama’s bed
and she’s on the brink of a mental breakdown
over her homework
i can see the glint of a blinking cursor 
tears glossing over her eyes
as her hands search for words in a language
all too foreign to her.

she said i could count in both spanish and english 
by the time i was 18 months old
but it's taken her 21 years and counting to flatten out
the unruly kinks of her language

my mama’s English
is a stubborn wine stain on a white dress
she scrubs at her twisted tongue desperate
to clean the spice, el cilantro, la salsa
that is her accent. 
her accent is the tambourine she hides
in the back of her mouth
behind the ivory piano keys that are her teeth
she speaks a merengue, bachata, ranchera, tonada
that she mutes to make room 
for her English.

my mama’s English 
gets told it's pretty good, 
for being an immigrant
to which she replies
you’ve got some nerve
for being a gringa
because my mama wasn’t a stay-at-home mom
for fifteen years to be told that her English
needed housekeeping. 
the beauty of my mama’s English
is that she doesn’t need it 
to knock your head off your shoulders
call her a luchador
cuz she can make you tap out faster
than you can say
her English isn’t good enough.

my mama’s English
is me correcting her at the dinner table
it’s me laughing when she can’t find
the right syllables and sounds
and the words don’t fit quite right
in her mouth.
it’s the downturn of her lips
at the expense of my smile
because her English is not 
the punchline of a joke 
that’s gotten too old.

my mama’s English
is the piñata she got me on my 10th birthday
big and bright and pink and purple
but hollow on the inside
it’s her count to three
uno, dos, tres
as she spun me blindfolded
dizzy and facing the wrong direction
it’s the swing and miss of my bat
and the candy and confetti that falls
in the final hit that breaks it open.
it’s a game of pin the tail on the donkey
no matter how many times you play
you never just get it quite right.
it’s the quinceñera I never had
overrated and stereotypical
distastefully too latina
it’s the number birthday candles
that melt hot wax onto the cake 
she made from scratch
it’s the reason my birthday is not just
a happy birthday but a feliz cumpleaños
it’s the reason that when i go to my friend’s parties
i want to sing happy birthday twice
because mama never let us blow out candles
before singing en Español.

my mama’s English
is the one dollar and 35 cent Cuban coffee
i drive her to get every saturday 
itching at the back of her throat
bitter and hard to swallow
only sweet from the sugar left 
in the foam she licks off her top lip
it’s the reason she insists 
the starbucks double espresso
doesn’t have the same kick.

it’s the reason i’m sitting on mama’s bed
watching her eyes swell as she fumbles with the keys
it’s the reason she got into graduate school at 42
why i help her with her homework before i do my own
it’s why the bottom of her computer burns my lap
with each oxford comma and restructured sentence
and fixed grammar rule

it’s why she doesn’t end up crying
when i whisper that everything will be ok

my mama’s English
is the reason i can tell her in two ways
that she is my everything, mi todo
because her love knows no language.


“De tal palo tal astilla”
it’s superbowl sunday with your son
and he’s wearing your favorite kansas city chiefs jersey
like a cape.
he holds his coke can to his chest
like you balance your budweiser on your belly
laughs at the barbeque in your beard
and hopes he’ll grow up to be just like daddy someday.
but then the halftime show comes on,
and suddenly your family-friendly event—
you know, the one that encourages boys
to take their tackles and concussions like men—
is ruined the moment two Latinas take an American stage.
and when you gasp in mock disapproval, you’ll shield your son’s eyes 
from the “obscenities” on screen because
you’re afraid he’ll look at Shakira and J. Lo the same way you look at them.

look at them the way I’ve been looked at my entire life.
look at them the way I was looked at sitting in a shoe store 
while my dad shopped for sneakers two aisles over
by a group of men my father’s age.
i heard their heavy boots before i heard their whistles call me “chica.”
I was eight years old the first time I was made to carry sex appeal.

or maybe you’re afraid your sweet son
will become a Cody,
the 22-year-old guy who approached me
after dual enrollment at community college
and asked me who i was waiting for.
didn’t stop when i said “my mom” even though
he knew i wasn’t even old enough to drive a car.
complimented my shirt and jewelry
but what he meant was that he liked the way
my gold chain dipped from my collarbone to my chest
that from my gold hoops he could tell that my hips don't lie
he called me “exotic”
turned my nationality into a flirty guessing game.
“you must be Puerto Rican, no, Columbian, no, Mexican, no
Venezuelan, Cuban Argentinian, Dominican??—”
no. 
what i am is sick and tired of men like you
fetishizing my culture.
what i am is sick of old white man thinking i can be
their “hot-tamale” token Latina trophy wife
i am sick and tired of being cast as the “Spicy Latina” television trope
i am not your sexy maid turned homewrecker
hypersexual, hot-blooded, hothead
your sassy, sensual Sofia Vergara type,
some big breasted brainless beauty
i am Latina.
i am conditioned to be treated this way
through a history of submission and subjugation
you see, i’ve learned we Latinas have been
a white man’s conquest for centuries.

i’ve learned you only like my exploitation 
when it’s convenient for you.
that it’s ok for your private pleasure 
at a shoe store or on the streets,
but the moment a Latina takes pride, is empowered by her culture 
she is inappropriate, disgusting, crude, suddenly too sexy
we have become a disruption to your family-friendly game of violence
for something far more harmful to children:
Latina women dancing, apparently, because at least
football players have the decency to cover their bodies.
but no one remembers that Adam Levine performed shirtless last year,
or that Lady Gaga wore a barely there bodysuit
or what nearly-nude thing Katy Perry, Madonna, or Britney Spears wore
because at least their curves
are subdued by white.

even though you’ll cover your son’s eyes
you can’t protect him.
he’ll become just what you raised him to be.
look at women like me the way men like you do.
you’ve made him blind to his own hypocrisy.
and when your son becomes a man
you’ll take pride in your creation.


“To the boy who called my girlfriend and me the f-word on Valentine’s Day”
to the boy who called my girlfriend and me
the f-word on Valentine's Day,
no, not that f-word
you know, the f-word used to describe
cigarettes and marginalize gay men
yeah, that one.
the one so offensive i can’t even say it in this poem
the one that’s too strong of a slur for competition
so to the boy who gave no real-life trigger warning
this poem is for you. 

i bet you didn’t expect 
for our first reaction to be laughter.
we looked over our shoulders 
to search for the typical victim:
a skinny, flamboyant gay boy—
his hands perched on his hips
but when we didn’t see him
we saw ourselves.
saw how we hold hands with fingers intertwined,
not cupped loosely like best friends do.
how i make sure my heels
are at least an inch taller than hers
how she trails behind me
because she always says I walk too fast
we laughed because we were in disbelief.
i wondered if you could see the way
i hide my pride in my pink eyeshadow and waterproof mascara.
the way i tuck my sexuality in the hair behind my ears
and keep my promise ring on a necklace
to bury inside my dress.
i wondered what about my girlfriend’s flower patterns said “queer”
i wondered if you could tell by the weight of her earrings
i wondered if she had done her hair differently
if you would have said anything at all.

you see, the thing about being a feminine gay girl
is that you have the privilege of passing.
because as long as you look like the rest of your friends,
they’ll never accuse you of hitting on them. 
because the more men still find you attractive, 
the less likely you are to emasculate them
and better yet, if you’re bisexual
even if you and your girlfriend are going two years strong,
if men still think you could be interested, you’re safe.
but the thing about being a feminine gay girl
is that when you date a girl after breaking up with a boyfriend
the boys in pre-calc will still ask,
“was he really that bad to turn you gay?”
will still follow you to your locker 
and ask if it was because he was a bad kisser
and when you finally have the nerve to speak up
you find yourself defending your sexuality
to a couple of  guys who will never care.
to a couple of guys who will watch their friend
call two girls ff---(forgot I still can’t say that word, even though you did) 
on Valentine’s Day.
to a couple of guys who will do nothing 
but laugh along and say it with you.

to the boy who called my girlfriend and me 
the f-word on Valentine’s Day,
i hope your friends found it funny.
i hope your friends found it funny
that i drove home the next day shaking.
that i turned up the radio trying to tune out his words
replaying like lyrics in my head
but his song was on repeat and i was stuck on the chorus.
i hope your friends found it funny
that when i told my mom your words
behind stutters of tears
she told me “that’s how the world treats people like you.”
told me it’s not worth being upset over the ignorance of three boys
but what she didn’t know is that i was glad that’s all you said.
that i was glad we weren’t the two girls on a London bus
harassed by five teenagers.
that i was glad there were only three of them
that you didn’t demand that we kiss
and rob and assault us when we refused
that i was glad we wouldn’t leave our blood on a bus window
be beaten and bruised and have our noses and jaws 
broken for love
that i was glad our date ended at her house
and not at the hospital.

to the boy who called my girlfriend and me
the f-word on Valentine’s Day
and to the boys from pre-calc that i never reported
even after months of harassment
i dedicate my pain and this poem to you.

and to the family i still can’t come out to
to my younger-self, who shoved away her feelings
because she was embarassed to call herself gay.
to my girlfriend, whose hand i’m still afraid to hold in public
i’m sorry.
i’m sorry that even after three years
i still can’t come to terms with my sexuality
i’m sorry that you have to share my burden
the product of a boy’s humiliation
because i’m still ashamed.
and i’m sorry that even in a poem
where i’m only supposed to be the victim of an ignorant boy
i’m actually the victim of my own shame.