Thanks, Rusty Barnes, for publishing this piece.
I encourage y'all to submit to Rusty's damn fine journal.
Oh yes. I've been called White Trash but I prefer Basura Blanca.
I know I look white but I'm actually a Mexican.
I'm an Aztec warrior.
I did NOT ask to be born in Texas in 1973.
Shit is all fucked up.
But sometimes I eat at Dairy Queen.
You know what I love?
Chicken strips and Texas toast with white cream gravy.
When I was a little girl I spent quite a lot of time in my
great-grandmother's brown trailer house
on what was once Cuba Road
in Bridgeport, Texas.
She would smoke cigarettes, drink Coors
in the 1970s then Coca-Cola in the 1980s
and tell me about going from house to house
with a cardboard suitcase in her hands
asking strangers if she could live with them
when she was a little girl in the 1920s.
The television was always on.
You know it, motherfucker.
The Price is Right.
People's Court.
Love Connection.
All My Children.
The reading material: The National Enquirer.
And books like this and this.
Mamaw Crenshaw didn't like me much.
She thought I lacked fire.
Proof that astrology is fucking real.
She was a Sagittarius (fire)
and I'm an Aquarius with Virgo rising
and a Virgo moon.
Fire is the element most lacking
in my natal chart.
But in the progressed chart I've got an Aries sun and Aries Venus.
I've gone to Mexico three times in the past year.
Maybe she would be proud.
Takes cojones to brave the border in 2016
with only a toddler's grasp of Spanish
and twenty measly American dollars.
Also. I'm still trying to learn
how to fry chicken.
And I drink my coffee black
the way Jesus
intended.
I encourage y'all to submit to Rusty's damn fine journal.
Oh yes. I've been called White Trash but I prefer Basura Blanca.
I know I look white but I'm actually a Mexican.
I'm an Aztec warrior.
I did NOT ask to be born in Texas in 1973.
Shit is all fucked up.
But sometimes I eat at Dairy Queen.
You know what I love?
Chicken strips and Texas toast with white cream gravy.
When I was a little girl I spent quite a lot of time in my
great-grandmother's brown trailer house
on what was once Cuba Road
in Bridgeport, Texas.
She would smoke cigarettes, drink Coors
in the 1970s then Coca-Cola in the 1980s
and tell me about going from house to house
with a cardboard suitcase in her hands
asking strangers if she could live with them
when she was a little girl in the 1920s.
The television was always on.
You know it, motherfucker.
The Price is Right.
People's Court.
Love Connection.
All My Children.
The reading material: The National Enquirer.
And books like this and this.
Mamaw Crenshaw didn't like me much.
She thought I lacked fire.
Proof that astrology is fucking real.
She was a Sagittarius (fire)
and I'm an Aquarius with Virgo rising
and a Virgo moon.
Fire is the element most lacking
in my natal chart.
But in the progressed chart I've got an Aries sun and Aries Venus.
I've gone to Mexico three times in the past year.
Maybe she would be proud.
Takes cojones to brave the border in 2016
with only a toddler's grasp of Spanish
and twenty measly American dollars.
Also. I'm still trying to learn
how to fry chicken.
And I drink my coffee black
the way Jesus
intended.
No comments:
Post a Comment