+islamicgirl1 omg me tooooo

Complaining about AGP??? Alejandro García Padilla would be so proud of her if he saw this poem. Rosselló has to also see this too!

I have been there... I lost my whole Russian culture because of my father...

I always tell myself one day I’ll learn my language, my culture, I feel like I’m not good enough to be allowed to love it though.

Kalico Jones You can befriend me!

Sure, :)

Noooo! Not Satan!! Are you crazy??? D:>

Kalico Jones go to Orlando Florida, we're mostly puerto rican lol

I creep into your room, Abuela. Like an 8-year old on Christmas morning up 3 hours too early, but it’s 1pm and you’re still sleeping. I decide to wake you. Call me selfish, but there’s something left in you that I need hold before you’re gone. As your eyes open, I wait your face, trying to make sense of mine, trying to translate me into something you’ve spoken before And I know it only takes about 22 seconds, but I swear, it’s long enough for me to fall in love again. “Abuela, yo soy tu nieta. Recuerda?” And there your eyes widen like football fields, as you reach for me in your back pocket, like a crumpled dollar bill you forgot you had, showing me that I have always been worth holding onto. After we exchange short Spanish greetings, I try to keep the conversation going, but I’m not fluent, this language, your language was always bumpy road. So I turn the radio on to fill the pot holes in my tongue and we dance. Let Celia Cruz lay the clues that stitch you back to me the lyrics pulling themselves over the gaps in your seams like a jacket covering the puddles in your memory lapses, synapses snapping, and though your mind is a retired dancer with two left feet, your spirit is a 22 year old woman, with legs that could wrap Christmas presents for days and hips that could make God want a lap dance. Every chorus a question I ask like: “Abuela, how did you feel when it was illegal to wave your own flag?” Every melody, a moment to capture your history like: “Abuela, did you really walk 3 miles to school everyday?” Every riff, a chance to end those sleepless nights once and for all: “Abuela, did you ever figure out how to stay in love? I promise I won’t tell a soul I know.” See when we dance, we make corpses wanna boogie. You in bed, moving your arms conducting the skeleton of my body like a symphony my hips, rocking back and forth, with a dip and a twist, kissing the accents in your favorite song's lips, reaching for the dimple's in your memory for me to take a picture with. I can make you feel like when she was 22, growing up in a poor Puerto Rican town too high up to place on the map. Abuela, do you remember you yet? And I know this just amuses you, but the truth is this was never just dancing. You represent of part of me that people said I could never claim. You give me the language to speak my identity fluently, for the first time this was never just dancing. And maybe it’s because I’m the only one that can get to you, the 22 year old in you, the joy, the smile that forgets to show itself on most days. Abuela, you make me feel useful. You make me feel like I come from someplace, so who needs maps any way, I have you. So go ahead Abuela, sleep - just not forever. Because you and I have a lot more dancing left to do. Thanks to eve who