Sometimes, I fear for my roots.

My culture,

The traditions,

Mannerisms,

Stories,

Will they be forgotten?

Will my children’s children marvel in the beauty of the pueblo’s church,

Observing the stained glass,

The ceilings that reached the heavens,

The sculptures of saints,

The church in which every generation married?

Will they recall the warmth of the saint’s candles that burned for days,

The glass heated to the temperature of the sun?

The smell of the rosaries,

How gentle the beads feel in your palm?

Will they dig their hands into the rich earth of the guerta,

Feeling around the roots in the dirt,

And be able to feel the life in their grasp?

Will they run outside to the mango orchard in laughter?

Will they eat the sweet flesh of the fruit?

Will they gossip with their aunts,

Sharing every single family secret, 

That “you didn’t hear from me”,

only to conclude one cannot judge?

Will Spanish words feel foreign in their mouths,

As their tongues struggle to wrap themselves around the syllables?

Will they remember the feeling of the rough cobblestone streets on their bare feet?

The enchanting sound of a mariachis guitar?

The refreshing taste of jicama root in summer?

The sweet smell before a thunderstorm?

All confined within the land of their antepasados.

Will my children sink their hands into the motherland,

(If they even care to return, that is)

Only to ask themselves

“Do I really belong?”

Will they know the struggles of my parents after they left their country,

The sacrifices upon sacrifices that got them where they are.

Will they see this distant life of my parents,

Those simple beginnings,

And appreciate the struggles that came with this country?

Or will my children dig new roots into American soil,

Forgetting the life they’re built from,

And Branch away from their blood?