I wrote this poem in January of 2020.
She’s an American
I’m an immigrant
She loves Trump
I’m a borderline socialist
She believes in money and brand names
I believe in love and poetry
Born from the same womb
But living in different worlds
She’s upper middle class
I’m working class
She’s latina when it suits her
I’m latina every single day
She’s the definition of assimilation
I get called out by HR for being too Peruvian
She’s the American Dream
And I’m the immigrant
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
today I woke up overwhelmed, exhausted and in a fit of rage
feeling underappreciated in all of my efforts
to move my family forward
not remembering the last time I had a full day of rest
wondering how to continue this existence
of 60 something work weeks,
and of course the guilt over not spending enough time
with my kids-
I was downtrodden with grief and mad at the world
until my abuela’s story made its way to a conversation
with my coworker and a small light of hope dawned on me
if my illiterate and indigenous abuela Mercedes,
alone in the world could make generational wealth
in the early 1900s
despite the racism, the obstacles, and many tragedies faced
I, too. will not only survive but will also thrive
and continue to shine my light
it’s in my bloodline, my ancestry to evolve,
push myself forward despite obstacles, mental illness,
or life’s tragedies-IT’S UP TO ME!
as a Peruvian woman living in America in the 21st century
to make the best of what’s been given to me
which sometimes feels like the sourest of maize
and turn them in the sweetest and tastiest Chicha
Life on the BPD 