the truth is that i still cry

May 24, 2023- 1 min read

the melody of an organillo did it's job

this time, I can smell the streets

as I close my eyes

I hear my past through my phone speaker

I forgot about the job of the organillero

the one that stood outside of Palacio Nacional

it was no foreign sound to my sunday evenings

his job, as a street artist, was to imprint reality into my soul

the sound of the city lives in my heart still

I forgot the background sound of a weekend at the center of el D.F.

but today, an instagram post from a Mexico City local library

revived the beating drums in my chest

every sunday we would go to el Zocalo and Coyoacan for the free museum passes

I used to love going to trotsky's house

and to the underground ruins

the overwhelming history of struggle and resistance

the one I inherited from the land that birthed me

it has been over a decade away

the label of an immigrant has become the closest to my truth

but the truth is that I still cry

Like the first morning I woke up in Texas

aware of the ties my migration cut from me

Like when I was a child

and I would wake up unwrapped from my mom's arms

the melody of the organillo did it this time

I woke up from the nightmare that I've lived

nothing but an immigrant without rights

Though I have woken up happy to serve my new communities

from the other side

the truth is that I still cry

and the crudest truth is that I don't think I'll ever stop

https://youtu.be/zMv_55DweXM