My back has never been a bridge.
My back has never connect shit and I have certainly never allowed anyone to step on it.
to bend it.
My back has not accommodated. Instead it has carried.
For 20 years, 2 months, and 25 days it has carried.
For 20 years, 2 months, and 25 days my mom has scolded me for being
terco como una mula,
AS IF IT WERE A BAD THING.
I now realize that I’m simply chingona como mi abuela.
Chingona because my back has not been a bridge, it has been a backbone.
Chingona como Guadalupe Jiménez Rodríguez.
Chingona como la señora who’s way is the only way.
Who rather live alone than settle for a caregiver who isn’t good enough.
Who doesn’t treat her like the queen she is.
Who’s 80-something years of life,struggle, hard work, suffering, and triumph have entitled her to not give two fucks.
Not because she’s some stubborn bitch, but because SHE KNOWS she’s worked too damn hard to become who she is and have what she has and be where she is, to settle for anything less that what she wants or to conform to anything less than what she believes in.
I could easily be at home, pretending to be someone I’m not, pretending everything is okay, acting like nothing is wrong.
But instead I ride my bike to Denny’s, sit alone at my table for two, drinking cafe, smiling at my hot pink glitter nails,
Knowing that I might not be home opening presents under the tree, but that at least I know who Ramiro Alexis González is,
And at the end of the day, that’s all I need. Because my back is strong enough to hold me up.
Because my back is strong enough to carry.
Because no White-Capitalistic-Consumeristic-Materialistic tradition is strong enough to bend me.
Because como mi abuela, I’ve learned to survive while carrying the weight of oppression on my back, and still get up every morning and apologetically survive and thrive.