"When your blood line is Spanish and Incan and arroz con frijoles. When your story is Saturday mornings playing salsa music and green card applications. Taking passport photos with papi and driving late nights with your single mother listening to Carlos Vives. When hand me downs were your fashion line and open windows and standing fans kept you fresh from the outside in. When the smell of fried plantains reminds you of home and the ceviche is never as good as Mami’s. When brown looks good on you and sex is something you walk with daily. When plants feel like rooftops and summer is year long for your skin. When Spanish rolls off your tongue and ‘chuzo papi’ feels realer than, ‘oh baby’. When nothing is too spicy and biting your lip makes your eyes curl in the corner suggesting, ‘así me gusta.’ When speaking your truth has always been your motto. When shoes are nice but you’d rather feel the dirt with your toes and connect with the earth as she breathes you in. When rain soothes you and bongo drums makes your culo shake and your hips twist into figure eights. When music is like oxygen and seasonings go on even the fruit. When wide hips are your birthright and you’ve never had skinny thighs a day in your life. When you learned how to move in your mothers kitchen, not in a dance class. When even your curves have curves. _ When your blood is thicker than agua and lotion is a sacred cream. _ When you ain’t nothin more than just another immigrant who eventually became an American and flaunted her Hispanic ancestors with pride. Aquí estas. You finally found a home on your insides." - ALEJANDRA