In “America,” they say,
“Speak our tongue, it’s the only way,”
But my words, they slip,
They twist and fall,
Because a language I love,
Is not the one they call.
They tell me to be proud,
Of a flag that waves and speaks,
But my heart sings for another flag and in another voice,
A song the silence seeks.
“You’re literally free,” they say,
“Speak your language, we don’t mind,”
Yet when I speak my mami’s, my papi’s, my abuelas’, my abuelos’, tias’, tios’, primos’ and primas’ tongue,
They do not care to understand.
Be proud, they tell me,
Of what I can not reclaim,
Yet every word they force upon me
Feels like a claim of shame.
I carry my language in my bones,
It is my blood, it is my roots,
But they want me to forget it,
To wear their cowboy boots.
They want me to bend,
To speak their law,
But they do not see
The beauty in my flaw.
In “America,” they say,
But America has no one face,
It is woven in the threads of many,
In the dialects we chase.
So, no, I will not be proud
Of the tongue you gave me to wear,
Hablare lo que es mio,
Aprendan a escuchar.
