With red Crayola on my worn, hand-me-down lunchbox,
I scribble out my name, "Maria,"
It carries the weight of our roots,
And in its place, I write 'Liz.'
Liz likes the girls in the movies.
the one who brings PB&J for lunch. Not empanadas.
I choke down the peanut butter, trying not to grimace.
I stand out like a cactus among the wildflowers.
I hurry to the restroom and glance at my reflection,
Wishing Mom would let me straighten my curly hair. Wear it just like theirs.