My Ring Tone Is The Star Spangled Banner. When I Get a Booty Call, Patriots Remove Hats.

(Mi Belated Cuatro de Julio post)

Mexico taught me what it means to be Amerkin.

Amerkin Gothic: Insert your fluffies here.

As a vacationing gringita, I curdled on plastic-covered couches while cruel Guadalajaran uncles teased, “Medium (I become neither big nor small in my mother’s native land), do Yankee farts smell differently from our puns (wordplay is fart and fart is wordplay in Mexico except its pronunciation is more akin to poontang)? Ben (Franklin is invoked to beckon) “Sniff my hand and tell me.”

C’mere!

At night, Mexican mosquito armies sucked me husk. I awoke a pustule, and the sight of my abused body spooked even Guadalajarans who had regular visitations from ghosts that haunted in the form of their final human selves, cheating husbands turned pico de gallo by spousal machetes.

Pedro had a sancha.

“Why?” I begged my father. “Why have the bloodsuckers chosen me to destroy?”

“Hmmmm.“ Dad mused. “Maybe, they wanted to try American.”

I was their hamburguesa, papas francesas, and milk shake.

My milk shake brings all the zancudos to the yard…

With my cousins, I watched American cartoons on Abuelita’s TV. Sickos had dubbed these cartoons into Spanish. Listening to the Smurf’s south-of-the-border voices disturbed me to a pathological degree. I knew their real voices, and these Mexican voices were unnatural in the same way that Mrs. Claus being gang banged by elves would be. Also, sickos had replaced the name Smurfs with a flatulent onomatopoeia, Pitufos.

I’ve heard my ass whisper pitufo when she’s trying to be polite.

Mexico taught me what it truly means to be a merkin, not with family in Jalisco, but family in Quintana Roo.

Merkin-topped palapa.

I was bobbing in the waters of the Riviera along with a group of queer writers, we were on a literary retreat, and the hilarious Ali Liebegott harvested furry chunks of sea-plant floating past. She crowned her head with chunks. She crowned her shoulders with chunks. She said something akin to, “Mira mis merkins,” check out my merkins, and struck lewd pose.

I knew what a gherkin was. But not a merkin.

Innocently, I asked, “What’s a merkin?”

Riding the crest of a gentle Mexican wave, Michelle Tea, the lezzendary writer responsible for the retreat, squinted at me.

The merkin’s ambassador.

“It’s a pubic wig,” she said.

At that moment, my imagination parted oystery lips.

Merkintile.

Merkintalism.

Mirkenstocks

a.k.a “boots with the fur”

Reba Mirkentire.

I been merkin on the railroad all the livelong day.

Mexico gave me the gift of being Amerkin.

To help queer artists survive, please visit Michelle’s Radar Productions at radarproductions.org to make a gaily tax-deductible donation.

Homo-ish writers journeying into Quintana Roo’s ruins in search of the elusive Mexican writer, Mayan Angelou.

Advertisements

3 comments

  1. Thank you for reading. Ali is pretty apian, though, between you and me, she’s got knee issues. Apply to the retreat. If I’m jurying submissions for a spot, you are guaranteed one if you attach a check in the amount of my mortgage to your submission cover. xo

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s