 Buenas tardes, how's everybody doing? Y'all good? Y'all look cute. So my name is Yossi Marelles. I'm a poet. I write a lot of stories specifically about growing up. I grew up in East Side San Jose, and I'm from an immigrant background, so I write a lot of poems that are really, really Mexican. The first piece that I'm going to write, read is titled Dirty. Mami used to bathe us twice a day. She used to scrub the darker parts of our bodies as to wash away poverty. She would take out our pied-de-rapomo and scrub our elbows and knees. She scrubbed our little hands, took the dirt beneath our fingernails, and warned us to stay clean. She would often say, what are people going to say? I look cute, and you guys are all dirty. She would neatly part our hair, and when our stubborn little pelitos would not listen, she would place saliva in her hand and made it stay in place. She didn't want to be like Tony, or his nose. They used to call him piojoso at school because you could see the lights jumping like there was a party on his head. Más vale que no se te peguen esas costumbres, gordo. A ver when que vueles a chivo. She would then run to the fridge and take out a limón. She would slice it in halves. She would rudge each half under my armpit. The burning sensation would make me scream. Está te quieto, she would say. She ironed my shirts, pants, underwear, and socks. Mami, who was left alone with these two brown boys, dark as dirt, made sure that the rest of the world never had an excuse to call us dirty. This next page is Taro Prieto. In Prieto, in Spanish, it's kind of like, there really isn't a translation in English, but it has to do with skin tone. Like you're not dark or light, you're like in between. So it's Taro Prieto. I'm dark, not like my primos and primas who are light. I'm what happens when water falls on dirt, mud-colored skin with indio black hair. Big lips, like abuela minga, who I've never met. I am las casitas de barro en Guerrero. It is the skin that tells people that I'm not from here, that I come from a place closer to the sun. It is the skin that makes people want to talk to me in broken Spanish. What is your country like? They ask, but there is no answer. I am dark, not blanco or negro. Prieto, they say. Prieto, como maíz. This next piece is Taro Hombre, which translates to man. My body is just like my father's Chaparro y Moreno. I look in the mirror and see him though I only know him in pictures. When mommy calls me beautiful, I cannot help but wonder if she means it. How can she find beauty in a man that resembles a heartbreak? I've grown up into a man with no guidance, created blueprints for my masculinity out of bearing witness to its violence. My body is just like my father's with the same ability to bruise an eye, punch a wall, become enraged. I was raised in a culture where walking in my skin is a sign of power. Often I wonder if this queerness I embody is a byproduct of its absence or a way for the universe to ask my mother for forgiveness. This next is kind of like a short story and it's called Borrachitos and in English it kind of translates to drunkies. It goes like this. Papatino is drunk again. You can hear him from across the street his hoarse voice singing rancheras while his compadres stir him on. Mamadoña and I run to the window and see him stumbling across the pavement. A caravan of his compadres accompany him. They rest on each other's shoulders making their way past speeding cars and mocosos playing tag in the street. They look funny, grown men that never grew up. In a room like this often we already know this routine of taking care of him. He bursts through the door, his drunken compadres follow. They fill our small living room with the smell of vodka and staying at already dirty carpet with their shoes. Papatino puts on a show for his compadres to demonstrate that in his house his orders are the law. He shouts for Mamadoña vieja ven a darnos de comer. A monster when he is upset. She hits up the tortillas and I sit on the couch sounding out the noise of the conversation paying more attention to the cartoons and the TV. Papatino calls for me. Gordo ven para acá. Saluda a mis amigos. Annoyed I roll my eyes and one by one I introduce myself to his melee friends. Buenas tardes don, mi nombre es Yossi. Feeling grossed out I touch their dirty hand drunk off the ashes Among all his compadres there's one in particular that scares me. He is the youngest of the group but there's something in his eyes that makes me feel like I'm getting close to a dog that hasn't eaten in days. At any moment he could bite my arm off. I try to avoid him but Papatino tells me to say hi so I swallow my fear and proceed to shake his hand like I'm about to pet a wild beast. I walk towards him with hesitation he grabs my hand but does not shake it in the same way the other borrachos did. Instead he holds it tenderly and massages my arms. His fingers make rope maps across the smoothness of my skin. My body turns cold and I get goosebumps all over my arm. His compadres don't notice because they're too busy going on and on with the rancheras. He strokes my arm and asks me to sit on his lap. I look over at Papatino praying that he tells the man that this is not the way men act. But drunk off his ass he says mi hijo siéntate no seas grosero. And this last piece is cut off fists. And it's the first time my mommy taught me how to fight. Mommy closes my hands into fists. Hit them. Si no los chingas yo te voy a chingar. I close my eyes and swing. I hit like I'm hitting Papi that left us. I hit like those ladies that looked down on us because we're poor. I hit like Dio hits Tia. I hit the same way it hurts when they call you Joto. I swing as if through hitting I could get rid of shame. Like through hitting someone will actually love me. I hit because I am a boy. Mommy says this is the only way the world will respect you. Muchas gracias.