Fruit of the Drunken Tree

by Ingrid Rojas Contreras

Mambrú se fue a la Guerra Qué dolor, qué dolor, qué pena Mambrú se fue a la Guerra y no se cuando vendrá Do-re-mi, Do-re-fa No se cuando vendrá

I only knew a few things about the United States. I knew that sometimes it was called America, even though America was also the name of our continent.

We watched many arrivals: one crowd from Mexico, another from Brazil—there were people who were native to those countries and arrived looking downcast and nostalgic after their visit home, but there were also American women arriving from vacation, their skin red, on their hands and heads other peoples’ cultures.