In Which Miss Jill's Hips Don't Lie

Burrito or hamburger, Shakira or Taylor Swift, having rhythm or clumsily dancing like a buffoon -bicultural life has its challenges and at times I feel divided between the gringo and Mexican sides of my character. Sometimes when I’m throwing a wine bottle at my faithless lover, I casually check myself out in a reflective surface and behold a posterior with the topography of Kansas. “@#$#@#$#,” I think, “I’m looking pretty Anglo in these jeans.”

And then other days, I’m at a theme party, talking incessantly about Darfur and freeing Abu- Jamal, while hiding the fact that I am more interested in Venezuela, Honduras and Fidel. At this peak moment of ultimate WASPyness, the universe provides a gentle reminder of mi madre patria (my mother country).

Here I am, displaying my friendship for this charming, bibliophile Oxford graduate. After this picture was taken, I grabbed the camera to see how the photo would look in a glittered BFF frame. “Cute,” I uttered, but then I gasped. Inexplicably, a taquito was hovering over my head, reminding the world of which side of the Rio Grande produced my father.





This is redundant, but ¡¡¡¡¡Viva México!!!!!