Papa Americano

I crossed the street and went to the Oxxo to get a cup of joe.

This is not Joe. This is not even José. Esto es xocomil (Aztec for chocolate milk).

I self-helped myself to java and then my ovaries and I got in line. Carcinogenic cup warmed my hand. I waited. Once it was my turn, I stepped forward.

The cashier’s brutal, Olmec face glared.

You must be the head of the family…

-¡¿AMERICANO?!-he barked.

-¡¿Yo?!-I asked.

(me)

-¡No, el café!-

I know I look gruelingly American.

Olmecdonald.

I was reminded of this undeniable fact hours later, walking through el Centro, when a little butch girl, pompis parked on her skateboard, barked-¡AMERICANA!-at me.

Instead of arguing, I saluted ¡Sí, a sus ordenes!-

(yes, at your service)

“Etaik mai peekshair!” she commanded.

She grabbed her girlfriend’s hand. They posed.

Here joo go, mi Generala!

Saphety Dance.

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