my morning commutes are filled with brown faces.
with spanish and spanglish.
i walk to the bus stop passing the clemente kids.
who look at me under those big flags.
wondering what i’m doing to their neighborhood.
my straight, uncombed hair, too thin to even hold a bobby pin,
my skinny jeans and hoodies tell them that i don’t belong here.
and i’m not sure if i really do belong.
or if i moved here just for the cheap rent and a semblance of owning some culture.
just another gentrifier.
drawn to the exotic.
porque de veras, no puedo hablar como una boricua
no puedo bailar como una boricua
but does any of that matter?
and when the bus ride ends.
it’s english-only.
northface jackets and uggs.
and here. here is where i’m the exotic.
eyes and hair too dark to really belong.
and they say “where are you from?”
and i respond “here, from here”
and when they look at me sideways and ask
“where are you really from”
i don’t know how to respond.
this commute is like the back and forth i do every day.
and i’m afraid.
that i’ll be going somewhere where the i can’t go back and forth this way.
where there’s no coming back.
