Two Poems by Tomás Baiza
We of Mexican Mothers
We of Mexican mothers are nothing alike, except
in that we break the surface,
gasping,
from the ear-popping depths of that
most intense form of
maternidad.
We of Mexican mothers know the difference between
Swiss Miss cocoa and
Abuelita and
Ibarra Auténtico.
We know because we’ve breathed in until
our heads swim from the earthy musk of
our Mexican mothers’
pride,
exertion,
joy,
and their bitterness from
maintaining and gatekeeping
a culture.
We of Mexican mothers know that
some mornings are for arroz con leche, but
others are for Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms
because the alarm clock battery died
in the middle of the night
and now
everyone’s waking up late,
and now
everyone’s running around the house,
panicking over how we’re all bien jodidos
and there will be hell to pay,
like the exact moment when the Spaniards strolled
into Tenochtitlán with their beards,
and armor,
and swords,
and horses,
and viruses.
We of Mexican mothers know that haircuts
are always banged out at home,
in the kitchen, with Glad Bag ponchos
stretched over our shoulders,
but sometimes,
if we’re lucky,
we’ll sit in the kitchen of
our favorite tía because she did a year at
cosmetology school before she had to drop out.
We of Mexican mothers are constantly reminded that
life will never be as hard for us as it was for them—
especially if we’re the sons of Mexican mothers.
We know, without ever being told, that there are sometimes
things you just don’t talk about
with your Mexican mother—
like Mexico,
or your older siblings,
or if you’re a girl,
boys,
or if you’re a boy,
boys.
We of Mexican mothers know that
when we complain of an earache,
smoky salvation will come in the form of a
rolled-up newspaper and a match.
We of Mexican mothers know that
we will only ever be as Mexican as
our Mexican mothers want us to be.
We know, because we have learned from
our Mexican mothers’ tears, that
Mexican men are dangerous and unreliable
creatures and that sometimes
a white man will have to do the trick.
We of Mexican mothers
—and white fathers—
know that our white fathers
will feel left out and become angry
cuando nuestras jefitas
nos hablan en español.
We of Mexican mothers
—and gabacho fathers—
sometimes feel it necessary to
look around and ask ourselves:
“How the fuck is this supposed to work?”
We of Mexican mothers are nothing alike, except
in that that we know how it feels
to drag an anchor, and that
we will never not be
from Mexican mothers.
Note on the Office Fridge
Dear Pendejo Who Stole My Pinche Lunch,
Are you aware that my ancestors ate the hearts of children to be closer to the gods?
Can you be so certain that I have not quietly revived that solemn ritual in my search
for meaning,
here, where we spend so…many…hours of our lives?
I will confess that I have not always been the cheeriest of colleagues.
The first to raise his hand and say, “Can do, boss!”
The best “team player,” so to speak.
But I am nothing if not devout.
