The Immigrant’s Cliché Sisel Gelman
They say a Mexican standoff, But I don’t think they know what it means. My American professors don’t know How my brain rejects Both English and Spanish An identity neither here nor there. Every word I say Every time I speak, My undistinguishable voice Displaced from “home” Wishes it were Both here and there. My American friends don’t see My grandfather, late at night, Watching reruns Of the golden age of Mexican cinema To learn the new language of his freedom After years of persecution. Neither here nor there, Migration is the only story He grounds himself in.
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