“Grito de Dolores” (English Translation)
Abuelo held my feet tightly.
I sat on his shoulders
as I reached for the stars.
The fireworks ignited,
God-like specks in the sky
glistened before my eyes.
the crowd yelled with pride.
They called it El Grito de Dolores.
Only six, could not
understand the meaning of
that night in September.
All I knew were family Sundays
crossing back and forth between borders
and the himmo I sang in the halls.
Illuminated by an understanding
of heritage. I discovered my
homeland, 600 miles away from it.
My own identity.
Today, the Chicana fireworks
light my path under the same sky.
Sparked by a faint and rooted memory
of my Abuelo and El Dieciséis de Septiembre.