Orquídea 

By Noel Munguia-Moreno

And whose pain do I hold? I can’t imagine that the nights I spent eyes glued to bare walls to be of my own devising, for who would want to bang their own head mercilessly on a wall until it glows scarlet. How much of this misery do I crave, and how much was given to me? Did this sorrow arrive in a box during a Christmas that never came, or was it thrown outside the front door when someone yelled, “poor, poor little brown family?” Perhaps it came during class when blonde heads bobbed and laughed about their forefathers printed so cleanly on the crisp letterheads; perhaps it was their jubilescence that made me just another brown stain on their porcelain mantle. Teachers spoke of bays and Chesapeakes, empires and Protestants, but where was the cempasúchil? The mosaics of sol y Luna? Where were the rows of maize braided into their huitlacoche hair, delicately coated in red satin ribbons? And yet they expected me to speak on Cortez’s behalf as if I stood by his side when he made the Tepeyac glow scarlet.