You’re the target of all my prayers, you know. The mother of my faith. The snake woman who is all but reptile. The moon goddess who gave birth to the Sun and the Son and every man arrogant enough to call himself a god since.
And I know I promised to make the pilgrimage when I prayed to you on the last day of Novena, but seeing as I’m a 16-year-old without a license, passport, or any money other than the change my mom forgets to ask for, that’s not happening any time soon.
But today I’m here in this dream of a city with an inhale of chemicals and pan dulce. Where that language flows through the market like the river that connects the homeland to what’s supposedly the dreamland, where I live now. This is the closest I can get.
It’s a corner of the Detroit urban ocean shared by the Mexicans and the Arabs, mixing together in many shades of brown. Your pastel image radiates starlight on the wall of a hijab shop. I thought it all seemed kind of funny, at first. But it works. The Buddha next to a crucifix. The Torah next to the Quran. The wall covered in a sheet of flags.
Three languages compact the air into a whirlwind of R’s so sharp they could cut the roof of your mouth. Slurred S’s slump together like the grandchildren of three nations.
But I’m here for you. And maybe a pastry or two, but mostly I want to know where my mom came from. The human one, I mean. The one with the bags under her eyes and something sinking in her laugh. The one who never planned on having kids, but when life gives you lemons you squeeze some in your Tecaté and let loose on a Friday night.
Spanish is as foreign to her as me. Her mother was fluent in Spanish. Her father was from Mexico. She had two parents who could have taught her where she came from – all she had to do was ask. She just didn’t want to learn, I guess. Never resented her heritage. She hung out with the other Mexicanas. Got just as annoyed with the rich bolillos who thought they were better than everyone else. She even went to the dances. In the end, she just didn’t care whether people called you Tonatzín, Guadalupe, or just plain Mary.
But I’m trying. Trying to pray right. Trying to understand you. Trying to learn your real name – if it even exists. But, why? Why do I care so much? Do you?