Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The voice Aug 2020
When I was younger I told my mother
"Yo quiero ser como tu cuando crezca"
She kneeled down and said

I remembeer when I was younger
I looked up to my mother and I dreamed,
of the day I would grow up and be just like her.
She would always say "No"

Hasta que un día, me canse y le grite
"Cuando crezca voy a ser igualita a ti!"
She kneeled down and said
"Tu vas a ser mucho mejor que yo!"

I remember the first time I talked to my mom in english
"A mi me hablas en español!"

The first time I asked if I could go to a sleepover,
"Que no tienes casa o que?"

The first time I asked her permission to go on a fieldtrip
"Entonces para que te mando a la escuela?"

And the first time,
I told her I wanted to go to college,
"Pues a ver como le hacemos pero esta bien"

I remember her eyes, slightly dissapointed
Not at me, but at herself.
She wanted to give her daughter, only the best!

She wanted me to have the chances she never got

She wanted me to be better than her.

I don't remember:
A day that she didn't work
A day she didn't cook
A day she didn't say
"Echale ganas mija"

I do remember:
When she dropped me off at college,
She smiled and said,
"Eres como yo!"

"Eres como yo!"
No te rindes,
y Valiosa! "
A little something to introduce my mother to the world!
Max Neumann Nov 2019
spanish lyrics all over the

mental bubble
two cities

looking for love
looking for the real one
ain't no fake talk:
looking for the real one

i'd die for you
i'd die for you
for real
Marri May 2019
Who am I?
I must be black because my absent father won’t come back.
I am eccentric. I am authentic.
I am something you would never forget to mention.
I am a Black woman.

Who do you want me to be?
I must be Asian because with eyes like these I can solve any equation.
I am intelligent. I am pure elegance.
I am delicate.
I am an Asian woman.

Who do you think I am?
I must be Hispanic because my last name simply states it.
I am diligent. I am militant.
I am an immigrant.
I am a Hispanic woman.

Who should I be?
I may be white by culture, but not by sight.
I am privileged. I am a perfect image.
I have no limits.
I am a White woman.

On paper, the box I checked says Asian,
But sometimes I forget.
What if my race isn't solo, or singular?
It’s a duet—or even a quartet.
My race is tricolor—sometimes invisible.
My race isn't inside, and no, it's not physical.

What if my race is the rushing water of the Mississippi river?
The river just flows and flows—
Runs wherever it may go,
But some are quiet as they trickle in;
Drop by drop a new river begins,
As the water mixes, roaring free.
If you want to label my race, fine, label me.
Label my hair, my customs, or my speech.
Race is just a rumor that mankind decided to teach.

I wish I could forget that I have a race,
That the color is still staining my face.
I'm tired of the separation,
The segregation, the humiliation,
The exhaustion of having a race.
Why label the color on my skin?
Why not embrace the person that I hold within?

*R.A.C.E. stands for Reclassify All Children Equally.
bre marie rose Nov 2018
What do I call myself?
If the world sees me differently
then I see myself?
If I’m a blancita?
Blancita, a white girl.
Am I just a white girl?
Does the Spanish that escapes my mouth
tell you I’m a white girl?
Even when that language was forced onto my tongue.
Does the brown in my eyes resemble my mother’s skin?
If she’s a morena?
Morena, a brown girl.
But do you know the stories my body tell?
Does the curve of my nose, the crease of my eye,
or the curl of my hair tell you I’m a white girl?
Can you tell the kid that called me a **** at school
that I’m a white girl?
Or the girl who told me my people were toxic
that I’m a white girl?
Can I even call this brown girl blues?
Since my native blood isn't reflected in
my skins hue?
Why don’t you tell me?
Because if I’m just a white girl,
then what freedom do my people seek.
Emily Miller Jun 2018
Shadows move with my feet on the cobblestone
from the sunlight dancing on the picado banners
that stretch between buildings
And offer some reprieve
From the Texas sun.

The mouth-watering scent of pan dulce
Draws children to the glass fronts of the old bakery,
And they flit between sweet breads
And figurines of brilliant colors
Crowding stands run by elderly craftsmen and women with big smiles-

San Antonio,
There’s something in your streets.
Something binds me to your old, leaning buildings,
And the murals that decorate them,
San Antonio,

My first memories of reading
Reside on 600 Soledad Street
between the shelves of the Big Enchilada,
And dapple down through the glossy, colorful limbs
of its Chihuly spine.

You exist in the border between coastal plains and the hill country,
Mesquite trees and palm trees living side by side
Just as the German and Spanish settlements do,
The missions becoming as much a part of the land
As the Guadelupe.

With tequila on my tongue,
And boots on my feet,
I’m prepared to bask in the warmth absorbed by sandy loam
And breathe in the smell of elotas on a Sunday afternoon
To the sound of San Fernando’s bells,

Oh, San Antonio…
I’ve never wished for a better dwelling,
Even one with cooler summers
And smoother streets,
Oh, San Antonio…

I’d be a fool to leave you,
To call another home,
And I’ve never found myself foolish before,
So my dearest, sweetest, most proud San Antonio,
I am here to stay.
Morgan Mercury Jun 2018
American dreamer.
Southern border divide,
holding me back.
A new hope,
I dream to seek.
An escape from the land I once knew,
A place that just isn't meant for me.

Strange views,
The mainland holds.
Keeping me from something new.
I promise I'm not here to take anything from you.
I understand laws.
I understand policies.
But I'll give you anything for a hand.

Strange views.
Your word doesn't match your action.
How terrible for my copper skin brothers and sisters.
Not a chance for them to live.
Not a change for them to believe in a new.
So take our land
and take our food.
Take our love
and our culture.
But leave us in cages left to rust.

Strange views
of babies in tears
and the smell of fear
coming from grieving mothers and fathers.
As their babies are now out of sight,
What a strange view to see.
Why does this seem so familiar to me?
The voice Mar 2018
I couldn’t wait for my class to end so I could run outside and find
el carrito (Stand)
I fell in love with the feeling and the taste before I even knew what love was.
I stood outside holding my mother’s hand waiting for her to ask
the times she did not ask I would pull on her plaid, decently long skirt and looked over towards the man selling raspados

She knew what I wanted and she knew how much I wanted it.
I focused on ...
el carrito
as if looking at it would be enough to call the gods of raspados to have mercy over me

They cost $1.50. My mother gives me the money
I run over
The man says

te faltan, no es suficiente (not enough)

I was devastated, I began to take step back slowly, I dared to not look at my mother with this disappointment.
I barely noticed the lady standing behind the man, she was the boss

I noticed she was looking towards my mother
Maybe she saw in my mother’s face something convincing, or maybe my confusion triggered a mother instinct
Whatever it was, it was enough

As I walked away slowly with my first heart break,
the lady behind says,

tiene antojo, tu daselo (She has a craving, give it to her)

I thanked her with my smile and with a slight flitter in my heart of happiness and even more with my taste buds having a celebration just by looking at how this raspado was being made

The beautiful sound of the mountain man, holding a metal, rectangular shaver of ice
containing it all inside until it was ready to be placed in the cup. The small stones pile one by one when crushed
Just big enough to hold shape and small enough to enjoy

Then the miel con sabor a tamarindo  being delicately set on top, like a creamy blanket in liquid form

Si, con limon y sal, porfavor, y poquito chile (add salt and lemon, and a bit of spice... Please)
because my mom taught me how to be polite
and then, to my surprise the actual fruit
tamarindo on top, a light brown coloring with a soft cover on the hardened seed inside

It decorated with grace and delight, the treat awaiting for me
I felt the richness

There I learned my first lesson of kindness
It is part of a longer piece... It is Nonfiction.
Raspados are similar to icecones but very Hispanic. I suggest trying one. They vary in flavors (guava, pineapple, lime, mango, etc...)
Jr Sep 2017
El sonido
parafernalia y extravagancia

dulce susurro que con sigilo llega
y ensordece
y me ciega

bendigan todos los dioses el día
en que yo
encontré aquellos tonos sublimes

que en tu voz se escapan
Next page