In the Stomach of a Damselfly

FLACA
Jacelynn Guzman
Dancing. Parties.
My mom likes to cook this soup, pozole, she always
has to make tostadas with it. We all put chile in our
soup. I’ve helped her cook it, but I suck at cooking.
She makes it for Christmas and New Years. It makes
me feel close. It smells like tortillas. The only time we
sit down together with my family is to eat posole.
My grandpa, every morning, watches his telenovelas
on telemundo, you can hear the fighting in the
background while you eat breakfast.
The Virgin Mary. Candles. Altar.
For dia de los muertos my mom makes a special altar.
Thinking that there is an afterlife and that the person
that you lost is next to you is cool. But ghosts scare
me.
Bachata. Horchata.
Helping my mom make tortillas. Wet the masa til its
soggy, form it in a ball and put it in the press.
My mom loves Prince Royce.
I used to hate my Mexican culture. People at my
old school would call me white girl. They would ask
“Is your dad illegal? Is your mom illegal? Are you
illegal?” I appreciate my culture now. My culture is
fun. The way we present ourselves if different. My
grandpa has family in Mexico City that I have visited
when I was little. Staying in an adobe house, riding
horses. My grandma would sleep in the rocking chair.
My grandpa would wake up and eat beans and eggs
and coffee. We didn’t have much but in that moment
surrounded by the people you know care for you it
doesn’t really matter.