Tamia Romo, Youth Speaks
I am five years old
the smell of refried beans and tortillas
is the closest thing I know to heavenly
it is another Sunday morning in the Romo house
which means it’s time for Misa
now before I can throw my fists into the air
In protest
my Abuela is all cast iron grip on my small wrist
today we walk the extra 15 minutes
it takes to the chiseled white steps of the church
sitting at its feet is Pedro asking for
whatever kindness our pockets will allow this day of praise
he smells of neglect
from both mother earth and father time
called this conception of him poverty
his hands cup the air like to crescent moons
Coming together for a kiss
All to make one holy basket
my Abue reaches into the patterned pouches of her mantel
places a few pesos in the soft brown palms of my hands
we do not exchange words
the reflection of Pedro in her cataract amber eyes
says it all
It is the same look she gives my papa
As his hands rip through
The home made conchas she spends hours making
mirrored by the soft hope billowing from the beds of her cheeks in the way she smiles at me
As assimilation jackhammers its way through the maze that used to be my language
I swear it must be something in the way the sun has rubbed wisdom across her face
All of these phases in the orbit of her life echo one thing
“Tu eres mi familia”
And in a that moment I realize once again she is staring at Pedro
I walk over timidly
knees bumping into one another like two angry cousins
I place the money into his hands
he smiles, tells me to have a blessed day
I’m 18 now
And I believe this is the first lesson
my grandmother taught me on how to be a Latina
I have seen this tenderness hopscotch its way across all of the faces I call family
Maria who has six kids still donate to the church
Sonia volunteers to help feed the poor
Maestra Leti who taught my whole third-grade class the importance of our roots
We the descendants of the sun
always brimming with potential
always bursting with warmth
we shine not for ourselves but for each other
In hopes that new growth will sprout
Out of every generation
that follows our own
Children of brown soil
that has seen empires bloom and burst
we know resilience
we know community
we know support
we know we still have work to do not only when the sun rises
but when it simmers down into slumber
But most of all we know
“Tu eres mi familia”
Like it is the birthplace
Of all of our mother tongues
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