1.

On standardized forms for school

employment and loan applications:

What is your race? (Choose One) [either]

[  ] Hispanic or Latino [or]

[  ] White [meaning] (Not Hispanic or Latino)

remains the hardest question

I ever have to answer.

 

2.

It's not until I'm in Oaxaca that I think:

I'm not Mexican. Not really.

I'm too pale. Too tall.

Too tied in my second tongue.

Where do I find the pre-reqs for being accepted

anyway? Who can I ask: if not,

then what am I?

 

3.

I do a Google search for my grandfather

who died when I was eight and find:

Jorge Terrazas Acevedo,

born in Texas; father of one;

Chairman of the Chicano Studies

Department at the University of California

in Berkeley—and I see his face:

the onion shape of a clay water jug and

cow-brown eyes studying me

as carefully as he ate his sopa.

 

4.

On my way to grad school I cram

podcasts to learn what BIPOC means.

I know what it stands for.

What I don't know is whether I belong

in the student affinity meeting—

I wonder whether everyone wonders

whether I belong.

 

5.

In the confessional

hour of family counseling

my half-sister says she feels

like I can pass if I want to—

it's the truth

in her belief that stabs

two selves at once;

Being mistaken

never feels more a gift

than being seen.