Expatria

The word for home is
            hogar
but it’s not my word,
not really.
Instead, it’s like the borrowed Rs I roll
clumsily, deliberately
It’s like my tongue stumbling over
verde, tarde, cerdo, puerta
a choque of consonants
that come out stilted
rather than round and ripe

The word for home is
            hogar,
I think while in the zócalo:
dusty, sunny, quiet
papel picado dangling in the gazebo
toddlers and dogs squealing in circles
New, this town, but familiar
My children playing tag under ficuses and rubber trees
While someone else’s child chases palomas and shouts--
            ¡Mira, Mamí, mira!
Just like mine used to do when begging for algodónes
And climbing steel playgrounds
With hair that was brushed and clothes that were pressed
 
Later, in the taxi, I am asked:
¿Por qué tú hablas español tan perfecta?
It’s a compliment, but undeserved
Because I can’t remember the past tense of vivir
And I am stuck in a present tense that has passed:
            Hay tres años cuando vivimos en Guadalajara, I say
            M’ijo nació en Guadalajara, I say
            M’ijo es tapatío, I say
The driver laughs until he understands
And then we talk
            about new highways and the rainy season and pandemics
            about divorce and high school and fútbol
            about dual citizenship and tourism and migration
            about the world we share, in words we share, in this place we share
And in the backseat my daughter declares,
My favorite place in the whole entire world is Mexico
And I remember how she cried when I told her that she was not Mexican
How she was hurt when I explained why it wasn’t okay
             to declare that she was basically Mexican,
             to declare this because she loved chiles
             to declare this because she knew the piñata song
And I remember her confusion when I hissed at her to stop,
             when I told her she was not from Mexico
             when I told her it was not hers to claim
             when I told her that whiteness already takes too much
And I remember, too, how her eyes asked for forgiveness
but all I could offer was shame
 
The word for home is
           hogar
But the words for me are      
            gringa
            turista
            americana
            viajera
And maybe also
            blanquita
            colonista
            capitalista
These are my words, but they don’t explain
            how I learned to be a mother here, in a hand-me-down coto
            how I walked from that coto to the hospital to birth my son
            how I listened to my babies create worlds in a language I didn’t yet know
            how I became Mamá and each child became Mi Amor and together
            we still live in the imprints of that becoming
            and gather in the words that linger--
 
The word for home is
            hogar
And while I can exhale into the familiarity each time we return
I know that we are not, in fact,
            home