My Neighborhood is Mexico
The guys across the street
get up early Sunday morning
to wash their trucks
and I awaken to my windows
rattling and shaking
to a festive tuba
and a dancing accordion
In the market I encounter
a cadre of mamacitas
blocking the canned goods section
their brown eyes flash
and they turn away, discounting me,
and keeping me from the cache of salsa
The family a few doors down
has invited us to birthday dinners for their children-
all brown and beautiful
with gleaming eyes and flowing rivers of hair-
and they have been patient
and amused with me
I beg for them to sing for me
the Mexican Birthday song
They laugh and deny me
just enough to see me squirm and plead
Then Antonio begins to sing
Closing his eyes and raising his open hand up slowly
then Leti joins him in her soft voice
finding the words
and then twisting them around his
in a sweet harmony
Other family members join in
and the birthday child
beams up at them.
her soft face full of love
and a tear in the corner of her eye
Abalito, who was nodding in the corner,
sputters out a few words
and his head drops back to his chest,
reminisces circling his head like a crown
Even the babies stop tumbling,
eyes round and mouths open,
to listen to such beauty
coming from their parents mouths
Another round of chorus
and another bowl of pizole`
with lots of lemon and shredded cabbage
and fresh sliced rabenno,
and we pack up and head for home
heads full of romantic Spanish words
and songs and places we won’t see
When I drive past the fields
the pickers are leaning against cars, smoking,
and bringing their flats to the trucks
laughing and calling to each other
still joyful
even after ten and twelve hour days
bent over in the fields
breaking their backs so we can eat
Brussels sprouts and fresh strawberries
and they can afford tortillas and pintos
maybe something left over
to send home to
My neighborhood is
and though I don’t have the heat,
I do have the dust
and the music
and the culture
and the food
and the friendship