Asada
To my family, friends, teachers, and community—without you, I am nothing.
BORDER KID
It’s fun to be a border kid, to wake up early Saturdays
and cross the bridge to Mexico with my dad.
The town’s like a mirror twin of our own,
with Spanish spoken everywhere just the same
but English mostly missing till it pops up
like grains of sugar on a chili pepper.
We have breakfast in our favorite restorán.
Dad sips café de olla while I drink chocolate—
then we walk down uneven sidewalks, chatting
with strangers and friends in both languages.
Later we load our car with Mexican cokes and Joya,
avocados and cheese, tasty reminders of our roots.
Waiting in line at the bridge, though, my smile fades.
The border fence stands tall and ugly, invading
the carrizo at the river’s edge. Dad sees me staring,
puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, m’ijo:
“You’re a border kid, a foot on either bank.
Your ancestors crossed this river a thousand times.
No wall, no matter how tall, can stop your heritage
from flowing forever, like the Río Grande itself.”
BORDERLANDS
Sixty miles wide
on either side
of the river,
my people’s home
stretches from gulf
to mountain pass.
These borderlands,
strip of frontier,
home of hardy plants.
The thorn forest
with its black willows,
Texas ebony, mesquite,
huisache and brasil.
Transplanted fields
of corn and onion,
sorghum and sugarcane.
Foreign orchards
of ruby red grapefruit
white with flowers.
Native brush
rainbow bright
with purple sage,
rock rose, manzanilla
and hackberry fruit.
Beyond its edges spreads
the wild desert,
harsh and lovely
like a barrel cactus
in sunny bloom.
CHECKPOINT
On our road trip to San Antonio
for shopping and Six Flags,
Dad slows the car as we approach
the checkpoint, all those border patrol
in their green uniforms, guns on their belts.
Mom clutches los papeles—our passports,
her green card. She’s from Mexico. A resident,
not a citizen, by her own choice. At the checkpoint
a giant German Shepherd sniffs the tires
as the agents ask questions, inspect our trunk.
My little brother squeezes my hand, afraid.
My rebel sister nods and says her yessirs,
but I can tell she’s mad, the way her eyes get.
We’re innocent, sure, but our hearts beat fast.
We’ve heard stories.
Bad stories.
A cold nod and we’re waved along,
allowed to leave the borderlands—
made a limbo by the uncaring laws
of people a long way away who don’t know us,
a quarantine zone between white and brown.
I feel angry, just like my sister,
but I hold it tight inside.
We just don’t understand
why we have to prove every time
that we belong in our own country
where our mother gave birth to us.
Dad, like he can feel the bad vibes
coming from the back seat, tells us to chill.
“It won’t always be like this,” he says,
“but it’s up to us to make the change,
especially los jóvenes, you and your friends.
Eyes peeled. Stay frosty. Learn and teach the truth.
Right now? What matters is San Antonio.
We’ll take your mom shopping,
go swimming in the Texas-shaped pool,
and eat a big dinner at Tito’s.
Order anything you want.”
And he slides his favorite CD
into the battered radio. Los Tigres del Norte
start belting out “La Puerta Negra”—
“Pero ni la puerta ni cien candados
van a poder detenerme.”
Not the door. Not one hundred locks.
Ah, my dad. He always knows the right song.
OUR HOUSE
Our house wasn’t ready all at once.
Our house took years to grow,
like a Monterrey oak gone from acorn
to tall and broad and shady tree.
My parents saved for years,
bought a nice lot on the edge of town,
drew up the plans with Tío Mike.
One year the family poured the foundation,
then the next these concrete walls went up.
At