El Chavo’s on at 12
and I’m stocking shelves at Walmart,
my apron hiding dreams bigger than these aisles.
I’m buying the shampoo they say smells like coconuts—
white people shampoo, no one knows
who I am. My name could be Carlos or Jesús, or even Enrique.
Vicente Fernández sings about hearts and rancheras,
his voice like tequila—burns, but it’s good.
Follow your roots, they say. But what are roots
when they’re split by a border?
I stop by Taco Bell for a taco;
they call it “Mexican food”,
but I don’t taste my abuela’s hands in the tortilla.
I smile at the girl with red nails at the register,
her badge says “Heather.”
She doesn’t ask me where I’m from,
but I hear the unspoken:
Do I belong here?
I take my taco, though it’s not home.
Ain’t I American?
I never say, Wetback,
but I hear it whispered in jokes
they think I don’t understand.
Why would anyone leave
their native land? My father says:
Do it for you, for a better life.
I’m thinking about calling my mom tonight,
telling her I’m okay, even if
this land still doesn’t know what I am.
I might be the next someone,
but they don’t see it.
They don’t know if César Chávez
was a boxer or a saint.
Juan Gabriel’s on my playlist,
his smile softens the edges of this foreign tongue.
His dream is my anthem—
to be enough in both worlds.
After my shift, I’ll grab a six-pack
with Luis, talk about the white boss
who says, Speak English!
But Luis laughs,
Me vale, güey. He was a soccer star
back home. Now, we share small rebellions—
a cumbia in the parking lot,
a joke in Spanish between the aisles.
He doesn’t know who I’ll become,
and that 's okay.
I’m not even a catholic nor other religion,
I’m just a subject of prejudices.
El Chavo’s on at 12,
but I’ve got a cart full of dreams
and a head full of coconut shampoo,
Nike sneakers I bought on layaway,
and a longing that echoes louder
than these fluorescent lights.
And if the TV’s my father now,
it still doesn’t tell me
who I am.