"I keep one foot on U.S. ground
because my people have no voice
or choice otherwise.
This foot— planted in American soil— is how I speak the struggles of a people muted since 1493, when the colonizador
planted his flag in nuestro suelo
and called it destiny.
Occupying the seat of power
is not assimilation. It is strategy.
Aquí me siento. Here I stand.
I vote to name the injustices laid upon mi pedacito de tierra.
I keep one foot here not because I believe in empire— but because empire only listens when you stand in its living room and refuse to sit quietly.
This foot is not allegiance. It is leverage. Since el colonizador clavó su bandera en nuestro suelo and called it discovery while we bled into footnotes. They stripped our voice— then asked why we speak so loudly.
My vote is not gratitude. It is an accusation. A receipt. Proof.
Proof that you cannot erase us and expect silence to mean consent.
I speak for a land you tax,
neglect, abandon— then blame for drowning.
For a people disciplined into obedience, punished for resistance, and forever told to wait our turn.
I stand here furious because history did not end. I will use your language.
Your laws.
Your ballot boxes to say what you never wanted to hear:
We are not grateful.
We are not quiet.
We are still here.
And we will not— ever—go quietly."
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 2:22 AM UTC
"I keep one foot on U.S. ground
because my people have no voice
or choice otherwise.
This foot— planted in American soil— is how I speak the struggles of a people muted since 1493, when the colonizador
planted his flag in nuestro suelo
and called it destiny.
Occupying the seat of power
is not assimilation. It is strategy.
Aquí me siento. Here I stand.
I vote to name the injustices laid upon mi pedacito de tierra.
I keep one foot here not because I believe in empire— but because empire only listens when you stand in its living room and refuse to sit quietly.
This foot is not allegiance. It is leverage. Since el colonizador clavó su bandera en nuestro suelo and called it discovery while we bled into footnotes. They stripped our voice— then asked why we speak so loudly.
My vote is not gratitude. It is an accusation. A receipt. Proof.
Proof that you cannot erase us and expect silence to mean consent.
I speak for a land you tax,
neglect, abandon— then blame for drowning.
For a people disciplined into obedience, punished for resistance, and forever told to wait our turn.
I stand here furious because history did not end. I will use your language.
Your laws.
Your ballot boxes to say what you never wanted to hear:
We are not grateful.
We are not quiet.
We are still here.
And we will not— ever—go quietly."