MIS HIJOS

I grew up in Miami a Latino, but not Cuban
Which is kind of like, what’s the point of this?


Then, I moved to Western Mass for grad school
and the pedigree of my Latinoness did not matter
because there were so few of us you could tag us
like coyotes or timberwolves, and track us as blips
on a cold, green Transponder.


Then, I moved to (back to) Brooklyn:
Gravesend, Ocean Parkway and Avenue O
but was not Russian, Syrian, Chinese, Ukrainian, or Israeli,
although the Guatemalan Super in my building was in a Police
cover band in the basement,Tuesday nights.


Then, I moved to Spanish Harlem, One Hundredth and Third,
but was not Puerto Rican nor Dominican with a twist of ‘Rican
nor even distant Puerto Rican adjacent, like Cuban.


Then, I moved to Harlem proper and because I was the only
Latino in my building I became Mexican by default because that’s
who was working in the kitchens and making Harlem sparkle.


I taught in the Bronx but was not Dominican, was not Black
but I could speak Cuban, and this meant I could rapport with parents,
and make home visits and dance a mean bachata and support the right
bodegas, and order bacon, egg, and cheese with local aplomb.


Then, I moved to Los Angeles because my wife grew up here and
I was not Mexican nor Salvi (El Salvadorean) nor even Korean, and


still my California babe of a wife gave me two beautiful California boys
that are ALL gringo but HALF Mexican and HALF Argentine so there are three
things they know despite orientation, intuition, or calculation.


My boys are carnivorous, swarthy, and fancy futbol over football
not just as a matter of aesthetic but as a statement on skill.


My boys feel good eating black noodle goo and seaweed crunch tablets
and pozole plum-puddinged with tripe or ceso or chocolate-covered grass-
hoppers and insect lollipops. They tear up tacos, demolish burritos, and
crave a good choripan every now and again.


My boys are dark morsels, raven-haired, discrete, olive-skinned geeks.
They carry the Levant, the U.S./Mexico Border, the California Deserts
in their maw, in their genetic Powerschool, in their take-home folders.


The older boy adores his grandfather’s futbol club.
The younger boy, at five, can already run with the ball.