But You’re Mexican

They stare at me.

Looking for a hint of dark skin,
in my barely ivory complexion

Vigorously searching
for their definition of Mexican.

For the sombrero infused on top of my head
And the burrito glued to my hand.

Questioning the presence of culture
In a white-looking young woman.

I must have my citizenship papers
With me at all times.

Just in case.

They hear me speak in English,
“…but you’re Mexican”.

As if I’m only allowed to speak Spanish,
Or would broken English suffice?