1.  


  2. Anthony came over the other day and while he was here, I thought I heard a dogfight. Usually, when I hear dogs barking, it’s no big deal, but this sounded really intense. So, we went outside and it turns out that a man was beating another man up with a bat right outside our house. The dogs were actually the man’s who was getting beat up. They were trying to protect him. 

    I didn’t know what to do. I called 066 and told the police to come, there was blood. Everyone was just watching; Rosalia and her family, Helines and her family. But no one tried to break up the fight. Once it was over, the man got up and his head was covered in blood. Then he ran away. I don’t think the police came. 

    I told Dad that I needed an onion, I couldn’t make lunch without it, but I didn’t want to go across the street to buy one because I knew that the beating had to do with Alberto’s business. So I had him do it. 

     

  3. August 

     

  4.  

  5.  

  6.  

  7.  


  8. some sorrow has no bottom, it hurts and hurts, and no amount of crying can make it more bearable. 

    this is not one of those sorrows. this one hit the bottom. this one has a bottom. this one gets forgotten. 

     


  9. these are not hard times

     

  10.  


  11. When I was eighteen, I visited my boyfriend in Aguascalientes. I took a plane from Chicago to Guadalajara. I stayed with him and his family in their apartment next to the downtown cathedral. They didn’t own a microwave because microwaves were banned in Russia and Armenia in the seventies and even though they had migrated to Mexico his mother was afraid of them.

    During the trip, I soon realized that he was not the kind of person I wanted to be with even though we had dated for almost two years. He was the first chair violinist in Mexico’s national youth orchestra and I was a third-stand violist. I’d moved to the United States and started university and we did not end up maturing at the same rate. He was still mama’s boy, complaining about everything and he was lazy. He attended the local university and failed out almost half of his classes.

    He would talk to me about the kids that we would have. I would take his last name and instead of a questionable looking girl with a Mexican surname, I would be a questionable looking girl with an Armenian one. I broke up with him after he forgot about even saying happy Valentine’s Day on Valentine’s Day. I don’t feel any resentment towards him. Eight months later, he called me. He told me that I looked so good, that now I had everything that I had wanted. I hung up on him.

     

  12.  

  13.  

  14.  


  15. There are green-eyed Mexicans. The rich blond Mexicans. The Mexicans with the faces of Arab sheiks. The Jewish Mexicans. The big-footed-as-a-German Mexicans. The leftover-French Mexicans. The chaparrito compact Mexicans. The Tarahumara tall-as-desert-saguaro Mexicans. The Mediterranean Mexicans. The Mexicans with Tunisian eyebrows. The negrito Mexicans of the double coasts. The Chinese Mexicans. The curly-haired, freckled-faced, red-headed Mexicans. The jaguar-lipped Mexicans. The wide-as-a-Tula-tree Zapotec Mexicans. The Lebanese Mexicans. Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say I don’t look Mexican. I am Mexican.
    — Sandra Cisneros, Caramelo  (via xicanapreciosa)

    (Source: caitlinbridget, via fuckyeahmexico)