This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Wells chapter.
His Spanish isn’t all that great, but
at least he is trying his best.
His rolled Rs sit on his tongue,
the words of our ancestors falling
jagged on his teeth, cutting his lips.
His brows are steady as the stream drips
from his cheeks, the Mexicano blood
drips down from the edge of his lips.
He tries once more to roll that R,
But he sputters and chokes.
He tries once more, pulling his skin
of his lips inward, sucking on the
jagged mark. He attempts at the
back of his throat, the gurgling noise
of the flat R regurgitating behind his mouth.