The teacher said,

Go home and write
a poem tonight.
And let that poem reflect you--
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that black and white?
I am fifteen, Mexican, born in Chicago.
I went to school in the 'hood, then downtown, then possibly
to this college up in Vermont.
I am among the naturally tanned in my class.
The train tracks from the loop lead down into the Village,
through a Park, where I cross the bridge,
25th Avenue, 26th and I come home,
the two story red-bricked house, where I cross the threshold
into my sanctuary, lay down, and write this poem.

It's not easy to say what reflects me or you
at my age, fifteen. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Chicago, I hear you:
hear you, hear them--we three--you, me, share this page.
I hear Illinois. Yes me, that's who.
Well, I like to eat, sleep, learn and love.
I like to read, dream and believe in beauty.
I like jewelry for a Christmas present,
or itunes--P!nk, Perry or Pitbull.
I guess being Mexican doesn't make me not like
the same things as whites and blacks.
But I wonder, will my page be in Spanish?

Being me, it will not be English.
But it will and is
a part of you, teacher.
You are white--
yet part of the melting pot, as am I.
That's America.
Sometimes perhaps you are ashamed I, too, stand.
but I do not always want to be like you.
But that's not for us to decide!
As I reflect, from you no doubt,
I guess you reflect from me--
although you've been around longer--fit in--
and have more chances.

This is my page for American Literature.