“American”

Majik

No soy chicano ni cauacho

I’m a Majik American,

Descended from a mother

Labeled a migrant worker Mexican,

With countless reasons pushing for

A dismal disaster,

When Mom would work graveyard

For the make-ends-meet master,

I feel I should speak to Abuela

Before she lays to rest,

Pero yo no sé las palabras

That I want to express I confess,

At a young age I was ashamed,

But my own brother doesn’t know

My own mother’s name,

It was hard not speaking Spanish

In a city pura raza,

But it was harder to understand why

Cops came to my casa,

No questions—it’s quite confusing

Not sure what to be called

Till I realized your labels are irrelevant

To my cause.