Anita de Monte Laughs Last

by Xóchitl González

It felt like … Well, it felt like even when I bury myself in your fucking soil, I’m still not American enough.

They burned their bras and then they stopped giving a fuck about anyone’s tits but their own.

“Why am I here? Did the school just let me in to fill a quota and make everyone feel better for being so open-minded? Am I supposed to just churn out the same thoughts as everyone else? To worship the same gods you did? I’m told time and again that my culture, my background, aren’t worthy of study or time. Was I supposed to come here and pretend to have had the same life you did? Parrot the same opinions? The same perspectives? Or am I here to fucking change things? Because otherwise, what was the point of the whole thing—of letting me in, letting us all in? To just put out more tanned versions of all the other people coming in and out of those gates every four years?”

There were always second chances and unexpected opportunities, and if you were willing to stay open to them, new ways of seeing things.

Of picking yourself off the fucking floor because you can.