They call me Ghetto. They call me gunfights and drive-bys, pregnant teens. They call me Poverty, and concrete winter walls splashed with blood-red graffiti. They call me junior-high druggies and gang-banging muchachos. They call me Mexico like it’s a ***** word. They call me Ghetto.
But haven’t they seen through the white-washed walls of the “American Dream”? Don’t they know hurt and suffering, imperfections and neglect, as well?
So call me Mexico; call me Poverty; call me Ghetto.
I am run-down yards filled with laughing brown children, small apartments bursting with the scent of tamales, mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives. I am home-made tortillas at Thanksgiving and wrinkled hands pounding masa at Christmas. I am friendly smiles and shouted jokes followed by roaring laughter. I am the lilting syllables of a beautiful culture. I am comfort.