red.
he sits on TV spewing hate.
he talks about my culture as if knows anything about it.
he mocks my people as if we aren’t the ones doing the work no one else wants. he tells us to go back to our country.
red.
but where am i supposed to go back to when the only soil i truly know is the american one? what am i supposed to do when the first language i learned was your english?
when i bleed green white and red but the only flag i know is red white and blue?
red.
red is all i see.
the stripes on the flag in my high school classroom mocks me. the color of his logo fills me with rage.
the insults said because the language my mother and i speak makes them uncomfortable is branded into my skin.
green.
the grass on mi abuelo’s rancho. the salsa mi abuela made for dinner today. the apple we picked up at the plaza next to the fresh pan. la virgin de guadalupe.
yellow.
the color of the ribbon in mi prima’s hair. the fur of the guard dog from el rancho. el elote con chile y limón. la sol in the sky as i walk to church.
blue.
the sky the day we arrived. the water in acapulco. the tent over the taco place. the bows the mariachi wore.
pink.
the flowers on the bush in front of mi abuela’s store. the rides from la féria. the sunset as i leave mi pueblo.
red.
the dress i wore the day i fell in love with my culture.