They Call Me Güero. David Bowles

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      BORDER KID

      It’s fun to be a border kid, to wake up early Saturdays

      and cross the bridge to Mexico with my dad.

      The town’s like a mirror twin of our own,

      with Spanish spoken everywhere just the same

      but English mostly missing till it pops up

      like grains of sugar on a chili pepper.

      We have breakfast in our favorite restorán.

      Dad sips café de olla while I drink chocolate—

      then we walk down uneven sidewalks, chatting

      with strangers and friends in both languages.

      Later we load our car with Mexican cokes and Joya,

      avocados and cheese, tasty reminders of our roots.

      Waiting in line at the bridge, though, my smile fades.

      The border fence stands tall and ugly, invading

      the carrizo at the river’s edge. Dad sees me staring,

      puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, m’ijo:

      “You’re a border kid, a foot on either bank.

      Your ancestors crossed this river a thousand times.

      No wall, no matter how tall, can stop your heritage

      from flowing forever, like the Río Grande itself.”