Gabriel David Still

White Boy

Tell Santa Maria. not a city not even a town. just a place 

on Arizona’s side of the border

Tell the house Tata and his brother built, the mouths 

Nana fed as they made more mouths

Tell the living room–extended (twice),

stuffed toys graying, folded blankets crammed behind 

three styles of couches, the only furniture

that matches: the pair of recliners;

Tata muttering prayers from

his facing the front door, Nana’s in front of the tv

the coffee table between them, wobbling 

with one year-old hands finding balance

Tell the hallway leading to the dining table 

across from Nana and Tata’s bedroom

(Tell a fun-size Milky Way from 

the bag Tata hides in the corner 

behind the door if you see them)

Tell the archway framing the kitchen:

the growing cousins’ heights 

that populate its sides in black sharpie,

the yellow cluster of ceramic jarritos

hanging from its peak 

Tell the cabinet across from the fridge

the stool sitting in front of it

so short arms can reach

conchas y pan cochino

three generations of kids’

cups and bowls in the cabinets along the floor

Tell the playroom turned

second dining room

turned storage area

Tell our hollowed-out dryer clubhouse

the Tias told Tata to get rid of 

the day after we got stuck inside (it 

was maybe five minutes).

Tell my Tios’ rusting scraps,

welded steel Tata stacked

fifteen

feet

high, 

with bird crap, coming from the sky

hanging metal vines leading to 

swings, superglued blue plastic seats

Tell the backyard farm 

Tata gave up,

his birds that roamed the grass;

the day Tio Herman killed a mouse and 

Someone (no one has decided to remember

who) let Tata’s birds have it,

our squeals at the chicken 

pecking at the poking tail, pulling the prize from the duck’s grasp–

Tell Nana’s sudden yells to come back inside

Tell tortillas 

fresh from the comal:

de maíz con sal

o de harina con mantequilla

Tell my burnt fingertips

trying to flip them with my hands too

Tell all four lemon trees, two in the front yard

two in the back, growing on top of one another

in the mornings before it got too hot 

out Tata would send us: Half in the front, 

the rest in back. Whichever

cousins were there that day, bucketed

hands, picking 

the souring citrus as the sun reaches its peak

Tell my Tios’ lowriders

in the carport, along the side of the house:

LOCOS Custom Hydraulics, Tio Chalio’s shop

where they work on them. Tell him 

Nana said to move his cars for the day,

emptying trash bag upon trash bag of 

unsmashed soda cans clattering 

onto the concrete, the reek of beer 

staining our shoes by the time we finished.

Tell the Sundays

Tio Chalio would hop 

his or Tio Bobby or Tio Herman’s car

in the street out front

after lunch, young cousins hearing

from the living room

running out, craning their necks to see

Tell the Neighborhood, the Park, the High School

sprouted from the endless cornfields 

haunted with the older cousins’ tales

Tell 13 years in Ballet Folklorico de Santa Maria 

charro suits y botas, still in my closet

tell my cousins, their kids 

still in the group, practicing 

at the end of the street: Larry’s house by the stop sign.

Tell the miles of parades we marched

forced smiles on cinco de Mayos spent 

dancing from white retirement home 

to white retirement home to white retirement home to white retirement home

Tell Markie and Little Herman getting me ready

to perform Nayarit

the first time, I dropped the machete

my head hung low the rest of the performance

Tell the sound of my name

on my Mother’s tongue

Tell her criticizing

how I spread masa on tamales

sending me to the sink to

wet the hojas instead

the times she regrets

out loud 

that she didn’t teach me Spanish 

soon enough for it to stick.

Tell the mariachi band

she’s been trying to convince me to start

since I picked up a violin;

Tell the automatic claps 

of Nana’s hands when 

mine found Jarabe Tapatío along the fingerboard:

her eyebrows 

raising in excitement on both of our foreheads

Tell her arms, they call me

rey y niño lindo

Pero no me diga que no soy Mexicano.

If you let them

If you let them gentrify a tostada

they will want to call it Mexican Pizza,

If you let them call it Mexican Pizza 

they will want to add a drink on the side,

If you let them add a drink on the side

they will let you choose between their spa waters or a fountain drink,

If you let them give you a spa water

you will drink, say to yourself 

damn 

this tastes like an agua fresca 

but without the love

or culture,

If you continue drinking from the empty cup

they will hand you a punch card,

If you let them hand you a punch card

they will give you your tenth drink for free,

If you let them give you the tenth one for free

they will build a Del Taco down the street from your house,

If you let them build a Del Taco down the street from your house

they will sell half your culture back to you for twice the price

If you let them sell half your culture back to you for twice the price

they will call it a bargain,

If you let them call it a bargain 

they will add cookies to the menu,

If you let them give you a cookie 

they will call you vermin,

If you let them call you vermin

you have already convinced yourself 

you are smaller than them.