She produces sounds that link her soul to her land – distance is nothing but a number.
She stands tall. Her accent is so strong that the English “chocolate” swishes past her articulators the same way “chocolate” does in Español. And even when the white supremacists give her that look of disgust as they whisper that her voicing is wrong, she negates their ignorance. Her mind whispers “me vale madres” as her tongue continues to dance.
She stands proud. Honored of the melanin that takes over her skin: a perfect mixture of mamá and papá – the caramel drizzle draped over the vanilla white. Her thin black hair flowing through her roots.
Her tongue sways back and forth producing the five vowels that raised her, refusing to conform to the complexity of the English tongue. It knows how to dance to the quick pace of a rolling r; it connects with her Latina curves as she moves her hips from side to side at the vibrations of a good bachata tune.
Her mouth waters to the smell of mole and enchiladas, her lips close as her tongue prepares to move when her vocal cords voice the word “bueno” in response to the ringtone of her phone. Her tone is loud and firm, revealing her confidence in her speech.
She’s a woman of knowledge. Her accent makes her unique, not wrong.