Living Beyond Borders

by Margarita Longoria

  between working kitchens

  and keeping things clean . . .”

  Che paused then and took a big breath for the first time. He glanced at me, noticed that I was paying attention, then glared back at the now more attentive girls—all of us in awe of what one word had sparked in this guy.

  “Ghetto is not an adjective because it’s a place

  that does not fit one description

  like crime-ridden, gang-infested, dirty manifestation

  no doubt a result of our news and screens

  bombarding us with well-edited crime scenes.

  Yes, I’ve seen a young teen

  with a shiny silver gun in his hand

  and tats in between

  sirens and gunshots,

  yelling and screams

  boxed in by conveniently constructed freeways

  that still segregate

  pollution and stress

  causing our health to disintegrate.

  Immobilized by poor public education,

  disconnected teachers waiting for vacations

  —and their credentials

  leaving untapped potential to linger in subservience.

  Like servants, we’re kicked around all day,

  picking, cooking, and cleaning—praying for change.

  But how will this change?

  When words like ghetto are washed into our brains

  every day, by TVs, movies, video games,

  and you!

  When I hear you utter the word ghetto in disdain,

  it pains me to associate my house and my name.

  It’s this invisible virus that infects us the most

  through a simplistic, linguistic bacterial host,

  a flippant adjective for some—a reality for most.

  Madness has turned the word ghetto into an adjective.

  Unfortunately, for now, it’s where I live.”

  Che took another deep breath. Absorbed the scene. He had all eyes locked on him. He had to have practiced this poem at least a hundred times. The delivery was polished and near perfect. Everyone on the bus listened, either waiting for the next line or for some authority figure to intervene and pull the plug on this revolutionary poet. I was impressed by Che’s courage, presence, and passion—but he wasn’t finished. Sensing his audience’s interest had grown, Che amplified his volume when he resumed:

  “However,

  I see ghettos that don’t fit your ugly descriptions . . .

  I see families at dinner in joint celebrations.

  I see kids playing soccer, and scores of elation.

  I see the faces of the elderly in exaggeration.

  I see friends greeting and laughing at the bus stop.

  Even a rare scene with a considerate cop.

  I see houses painted vibrant colors

  that suburban HOAs would ban.

  I hear loud music, passion, and see all-natural tans.

  I feel the pulse of the moment and the beating of drums.

  Beautiful murals, loving people, and harmless bums.

  So, if not the mainstream media, and not the TV,

  at least let’s start it—just you and me.

  And not ghettoize our lives,

  our roots and our ways.

  Know the meaning of our words

  and question and say:

  ‘Yes, I live in one of many ghettos’

  —often separated, misrepresented, or ignored.

  I’m in a favela. I’m in a slum.

  But I don’t need no more slumlords!

  So don’t trap us with your words

  that berate the place I live.

  And remember, please remember:

  GHETTO

  is NOT an adjective. . . .”

  Everyone was silent as the bus jerked to its next stop. I had never seen such an impromptu public performance, and I doubt anyone else on that bus had either. We all should have applauded in unison. We should’ve given him an award, but we didn’t. It all happened too fast.

  Seconds after he finished, Che hastily grabbed his messenger bag as the bus doors opened. For some unknown reason, he glanced at me and tossed a folded paper on my lap. It was his poem. The poem. Could he tell that I was part Mexican? Did he sense that I was trying—for the first time—to figure out what that even meant? Before I could look up and say thanks, he was gone. He walked down the bus aisle, a few people quietly praising him as he passed by their seats, but he exited without another word, adding even more dramatic effect to the whole scene.

  I looked out the window and watched him walk triumphantly southbound down the hill toward Barrio Logan—the “ghetto” he had referred to. I had never been there—never thought of going there, actually. It was south of the 94 freeway, and I hadn’t even driven through out of habit, but also lack of necessity, I guess. It made me question my own Mexican-ness, though. Barrio Logan was the “most Mexican” neighborhood in San Diego, yet I’d never set foot in it. And Che was right. I had no idea what it was like in there, or any other so-called ghetto—only what others had made me believe over the years. His recitation was unbelievable, and his last line echoed in my head:

  Ghetto is NOT an adjective!

  The bus pushed forward. I looked back at the two teenage girls. They were both scrunching their faces in bewilderment and disapproval—almost disgust. They whispered a few inaudible words back and forth until the flaca blurted out:

  “¡Que loco!”

  Had they listened to a word? It seemed that the intended audience for Che’s epic poem had already dismissed him as crazy. They didn’t get it at all—a shame. Then they resumed their gossiping at low volume.

  On to the next thing, I thought. Online chatting, gossip, and extra emojis. TikToks. Highlights. Fails. Football or some other sport. Flipping through endless photo feeds. The next best Netflix show. All distractions, just like Che had said.

  I turned to look at the rest of the passengers. Heads down, staring at phones or gazing straight ahead. It was as if this epically performed poem was forgotten less than thirty seconds after it had happened. Had anyone really listened?

  Then it hit me: the paper in my hand. The poem he’d given to me. Why me? Could it mean that Che wanted me to be the messenger? Could I share this with the world somehow? Or was it meant especially for me? And if I accepted this mission, what would happen? Seriously, holding that poem, I felt like Neo in the Matrix, having to choose between the blue and the red pill.

  A choice.

  If I accepted Che’s mission—to share, to question, to rethink, to seek the truth for myself—it might make me more Mexican. Or maybe it would just make me more true to myself, a combination of sides and flavors to all be embraced.

  As the bus cruised down the hill toward downtown, I wondered for the first time that day if that was where I really wanted to go—to a rich, private-school-kid party in a penthouse overlooking San Diego Bay? On to the next thing. For some odd reason, the answer was simple: No. I never felt like I belonged at those parties anyway.

  It hit me then that all those detours—all the difficulty of the day—had happened for a reason. And now I sat with Che’s poem in my hand. A sign. I was convinced.

  I’d be choosing my detour this time. Finding my own way.

  So I leaned toward the emergency stop cord that ran along the length of the bus.

  And I pulled.

  YOLI CALDERON AND PRINCIPAL HAYES

  by ANGELA CERVANTES

  If you want to know the truth, and I suppose you do, I’ve never even been to Mexico, Mr. Hayes. You’re surprised, right? Have you been to Mexico?

  Wait, how many times? Wow. Five times is a lot. Let me guess . . . Cancún, right? Ding!
Ding! Winner! Is that photo behind your desk your family and you in Cancún?

  It looks like paradise. Isn’t it loco, Mr. Hayes? You and your kids have been to Mexico five times and yet the Mexican American girl sitting in your office has never been to Mexico. Wild, right?

  My parents are the ones from Mexico. Like, from real Mexico. Not the touristy Mexico that you visited. Not the part where everyone speaks to you in English, accepts American dollars, and serves you two-for-one sugary-sweet margaritas with cheap tequila. That’s Cancún. That’s not Mexico.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t turn down a trip to Cancún. Maybe someday I’ll go, you know. It’d be cool to know Mexico beyond what I see on the news and what my parents tell me about it. When I go, I’ll visit the real Mexico and see family. They live in the part of Mexico where no one speaks English, where you have to pay with pesos and they drink jamaica. And they sip tequila. They don’t shoot it like college kids on spring break. There are some really good tequilas that are made to be sipped. I tried some at my primo’s baptism last summer. Smooth. Yet most people think there’s only the cheap spring-break tequila. It’s also how lots of people think of Mexicans. They think there is just one type of us. Did you try tequila in Cancún?

  You don’t drink? Then why did you go to Cancún?

  For the beach? It was a family trip. I get that. Do you speak Spanish when you’re in Cancún?

  You don’t? Not even an easy hola or más guacamole, por favor?

  You should try. I can give you a few words to practice for the next time you go. I speak Spanish, but it’s not perfect. My mom says I speak Spanish often enough to get me into trouble, but not enough to get me out. Isn’t that funny? And here I am in trouble, and I’m not sure speaking Spanish or English will save me. I did what I did. And I know this talk won’t change anything, but you should know my side of the story. I don’t just go around smacking people for no reason.

  My side of the story doesn’t start today in the hallway. It starts with my family. My parents brought me here when I was just a little seed in my mom’s womb. Even though my parents chose to come here, they mostly speak Spanish and they hang on to our Mexican heritage.

  At my home, it’s Spanish only. And there is never any McDonald’s on our dining table. Only corn tortillas warmed on the comal and snuggled up in towels. I could talk about the other foods, like caldo de camarones, enchiladas, plates of carne asada and nopales, but it’d only make us both hungry.

  Do you like Mexican food?

  Burritos? I knew you were going to say that. How? I just knew. Okay, I knew it because that’s what all the non-Latinx people say. It’s always burritos and tacos. As if that’s all the Mexican food in the world. I’m not offended. It just is what it is.

  I bet your favorite Mexican restaurant in town is . . . Cactus Grill? Border Burritos? Señor Jalapeño? Los Sombreros—

  Got it. I mean, Señor Jalapeño is fine if you’re really dying for a smothered burrito, but that’s not Mexican food. And all the serapes they hang on the wall and all the free baskets of chips with mild salsa they serve you cannot even begin to replace what my mom and dad can cook on the stove.

  What I’m trying to say is that there is no McDonald’s and no Netflix at my house. It’s all Spanish TV. If I want to watch the Kardashians or Netflix, I have to go over to my friend Pilar’s house.

  Yes, Pilar Cordero, our sophomore class president. We’re best friends, but so far, her overachieving hasn’t rubbed off on me and—

  What?

  You’re right. So far, my troublemaking hasn’t rubbed off on her. Thank goddess, right? Yes, I know she’s a saint. Everyone tells me that. I’ll be sure to let her know you said nice things about her. She tries to be a good influence on me, but it didn’t work today.

  Anyway, what I was saying was that my dad likes to tell me over and over: We didn’t come here to eat McDonald’s and watch the Kardashians. We came for a better life.

  You came, I always remind him. I had no choice in the matter. I was born a few months after my dad sent for my mom to join him here. I have never known Mexico like they have, but somehow I’m proud of being from there just as much as I am proud of being an American. I really am. I’m a Mexican American. I don’t hyphenate it. I don’t call myself Hispanic. Latina is okay. Latinx is a little better. By calling myself Mexican American, I choose to claim Mexico—not reject it. It was my parents’ country. It’s also mine. Same with the United States. It’s mine too. I don’t have to choose one or the other.

  What? I am telling my side. I’m not trying to stall anything. This has everything to do with why I smacked that stupid girl. Just let me finish—

  Wait a minute. You think stupid is too harsh? You’re shaking your head at me because I called her stupid? Do you think it was harsh when she told me to go back to Mexico, Mr. Hayes?

  You do. So, we agree on that point. She was being racist. So I smacked her. I wanted to smack her the same way those words hit me across the face. I smacked her for all of the other Mexican American students who’ve also been told to go back to Mexico. And did you hear that her friends laughed when she said that to me? Laughed.

  Talk about harsh.

  I know it was against school rules to hit her. You’re the principal. I get that you know the rules better than anyone. I know violence is never right, but what about the violence of words? Is there a school rule against that? Is she going to be suspended too?

  Yeah, right. She’s the victim.

  Her busted lip will be fine. It’ll heal. But maybe my action is the thing that will keep her and her friends from ever saying something like that to another Mexican American student again. I did what your school rules couldn’t, and yet I’m the one being punished. I’m the one called to your office.

  Are all those posters just a big lie? You know, the posters you have all over the hallways. If you didn’t believe words were powerful, why would you have them freakin’ plastered all over the school? Maybe if Laura had read that poster, the one posted up outside the gym that says, Treat others as you wish to be treated, none of this shit would have happened.

  Sorry, I didn’t mean to curse. Are you going to suspend me for that, too?

  Okay, so you obviously think I shouldn’t have smacked her. Was I just supposed to walk away? What if it was you, Mr. Hayes? What if you were told to go back to . . . ? I don’t know, Norway? Scotland? England? The suburbs?

  I swear I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to share how I feel. In all of this, no one has even asked me how I feel. Everyone ran to Laura. Everyone comforted Laura. Are you all right, Laura? Do you need anything, Laura?

  Fine. Go ahead and have your secretary call my parents if you think we’re getting nowhere. Where were you hoping to go?

  The thing is, no one can pick me up right now. My parents work. They’re always working. They came here for a better life, and for them a better life means working to make money and sending me to school so I can get an education. My dad works at the dog food cannery until eight p.m. His boss never lets him off early. Not even one time when I fell at school and needed stitches. Pilar’s mom came and got me. Yes, Mrs. Cordero. She’s a saint just like her daughter. We agree on that point.

  My mom can’t come during the day either. She has a very demanding job. She’s a seamstress for one of the fanciest shops here in town. You probably know it. She makes alterations on wedding gowns. Mostly she has to take out the dresses because the nervous brides are eating too much, but they scream and accuse my mom of getting the measurements wrong and making the dresses too tight. My mom says all she can do is smile and nod. She knows it’s their fault. They are eating too many smothered burritos and free baskets of chips at Señor Jalapeño. At least the chubby brides keep my mom’s sewing machine humming. It’s the last thing I hear before I fall asleep and the first thing I hear when I wake up. She’ll be home a little after six.
So if you were hoping to sit them down in this nice office during work hours to talk about me—their troubled daughter—you’ll be waiting a long time.

  Also, like I said, their English isn’t good. So if you want to talk to my parents, you better call the school translator, Mrs. Ochoa, to help. Or I could translate . . . but I’m not sure you’d want me to. Probably not, right? Things might get a little twisted if I tell it.

  Mrs. Ochoa already knows where I live. She’s been to my house twice this school year. Once she came when there was a soccer game on. Bad timing. In my casa, it’s all fútbol. No basketball, no American football, just Chivas and Americas and, of course, my dad’s favorite team: Monarcas from the state of Michoacán. When fútbol is on, nothing else exists. Mrs. Ochoa ended up staying to watch the whole game with us. They’re compadres now, which means friends who have become family.

  Monarcas? You’ve never heard of them? Not surprised. They’re a Mexican team. It means “monarchs”—kings and queens, right, but it’s also the name for those famous butterflies. You’ve seen them, yeah? In Michoacán—where my family is from—there are parks full of monarch butterflies. Do you know about the monarca, Mr. Hayes?

  Just a little? The monarch butterfly is amazing. It migrates from one end of North America to the other, never losing its path through the Canadian forest, through the Midwest back to Michoacán, Mexico. It always knows where it comes from and how to get back there, regardless of the miles between where it flies and how far it travels from home. Kind of like my mom and dad. They came all the way from Mexico to the Midwest, and then they had me in a little leaf.

  Kidding!

  I was born at Mercy Hospital. Fifteen years later, here I am. And maybe I’m more of a gross, sticky baby caterpillar than a butterfly right now. Maybe I’m still transforming into a monarca. Maybe that’s why that stupid girl pissed me off. She told me to go back to where I come from. That’s like telling my parents that all their hard work and sacrifice doesn’t matter. That’s like telling me I don’t belong here when I belong just as much as she does. I know I belong because my parents chose this path.