The Immigrant’s Cliché

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.

A Mexican standoff— A conflict with no prospect of victory. I can’t articulate to Americans How accurate their cliché is When my identities Argue against each other; My culture, My childhood, Fueling the dislocation Of assimilation.

Migration is each generation’s Identity—neither here nor there. Children after children, Together, here and there. No sleep, no peace, no home. A single leather suitcase, Leaden with the familial Struggle of diaspora, Is imbued in my Heritage.