This is dedicated to my family and my ancestors, especially to my mother, mi rayito de sol olor a Verano eterno de los ochentas, descansa en paz (1963-2023). Thank you.

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International Student Sampler $6:06AM.

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All Monday mornings are restless days, which means, I conditioned my brain for homework, chores and possible surprises for the rest of the weekend. I was hungry before I woke up, my room was the oasis in the middle of the desert, a cold cave where there is no light bothering my sleep. My room is the only cool and quiet place in the house until I opened the door.

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Coq au café $7:11AM.

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The rest of the house smells like coffee and cinnamon, such smell guided me to the kitchen: a yellow room full of gallos and vaca decorations, colorful windows and curtains, old paintings that I did when I was little, and some background noises that were coming from the TV; a random movie that nobody was watching. Mi abuela was making her famous salsa verde, and my uncle was sitting there, reading the newspaper. I entered to the kitchen walking straight to the coffee machine, forgetting to say good morning.

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“Se dice buenos días mijita, para que tengas un buen día.” My abuela said.

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“Buenos días abuela, lo siento, estoy algo dormida todavía.” I sighed ¿Ya se tomó su café?”

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“Pues ya mija, ya… pero pues, sírveme otro, que le hace.”

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Then, I heard my mother’s heels from upstairs. She was always singing in the morning, because she’s the rising sun of the house. Her voice dominated the room before she even appeared. She was wearing a colorful dress and heels, heavy accessories decorated her ears, wrists and neck. My father, who was more like me, forgot to say good morning. The first thing he did after he saw me serving coffee to my abuela, was ask for a cup of coffee too. I did what he said and a little gesture of love, a good easy-peasy Mexican breakfast.

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Driving License Burger with no car bun $7:37AM

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I like to cook for others, but time was cooking me out. In addition to the sunny-side eggs, I pre-heated some beans and a quesadilla that I made for my mother and me. I also served a glass of water for her, which she appreciated with a smile, and she commented to me she was going to the hospital again. She was not a slow eater, but that day she was tired. She didn’t want to show it, but at the same time she was trying to relax, because she beat cancer once again. I served two cups of coffee for my father and me. We were waiting for my mother, and we initiated a conversation about finances that led to jobs, then grad school, and concluded on the reason why I still don’t have a car. That’s the menu of my everyday life, most of the days are only coffee and bananas, but I know the special soup of the day is someone saying good morning, and having a conversation to forget the pass of time and that the fine line between success or failure even exists.

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2 x 2 x 2 $7:55AM

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While my father was driving me to school, I watched Juarez waking up late. There’re no cars at seven thirty, but too much traffic at eight. The “great” gray old city is like an oven; pre-heated in the first hour morning, the cars are the pan, and we, the people, are the food cooked by the heat of the sun as we cross the beacon, I mean, the border. That explains why everyone keeps getting into the line without respecting it in the first place. They don’t want to be overcooked by time. My father is not always generous, and sometimes the people are extra spicy, and that makes me think, how many different kinds of lives are crossing the border? For me, it was because of my education. I still don’t speak English so fluently, but my mother once told me if I had the chance to be bilingual, I would have more options to get more job offers internationally speaking. I’m a slow learner like my father claimed he once was, but I know I can be better tomorrow, I have the privilege of time and money saved in my bank account.

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Tres Leches Pancakes $8:08AM

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“—He came over by surprise, did you invite him to our house?” my mother said in the middle of a conversation, we were still in the line. She was talking about one of my cousins.

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“You know he’s like that.” My father replied.

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“But he said that Venezuelan people are thieves, criminals and desperate people who doesn’t know what a real job looks like, but they also are going to steal our jobs. So, I said to him how dare you! You’re Mexican American yourself, your parents are immigrants as well, you didn’t even go to college even with your damn privilege!” My father sighed and shook his head, smiling.

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“Mi reina, are you sure you said that to him…? —”

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“No, of course not, I didn’t say a word.” She said, laughing.

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“He doesn’t really know what it feels like to abandon everything in order to have a better life…” my father replied, and both went silent.

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At that moment, I thought about what my father’s life was. He was not American, he was from Tuxpan, Veracruz, a proud harocho, which makes me part fish, like a real mermaid. He had a hard decision to make in order to be successful. He chose to live alone in Mexico City, to obtain a full scholarship in the IPN (Instituto Politécnico Nacional), instead of continuing to work and own a PEMEX’s oil plant, like my grandfather and my great-grand father did. I know my father was on the brink of death because of that job, and I know that he saw a lot of things too. After graduation, he went to Juarez because of a friend, while he was waiting to be accepted in some university in Russia. They were offering a full scholarship for grad-school for the recommended graduates, and my father was one of them. They were offering a great scholarship in nuclear chemistry. Russia responded, but they had another offer (nuclear chemistry was already filled), and explained that they didn’t see my father’s submission early, but they still were interested in him, and offered him petrochemistry instead. He hated everything related to PEMEX’s or petroleum, so his final decision was to decline the offer. He decided to marry my mother instead who he had been dating for just a month.

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“You see why the necessity of your education, Jocelyn Yared, are you listening?” My mother said.

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“Yes mother,” I replied coming back to earth “I like school already, don’t worry that much, I’m not like my ungrateful cousin.”

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The Ultimate Choco-cruel Reality Cake $3:33PM

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After class, I waited for my older sister to pick me up. I was on the sidewalk on Mesa Street, close to McDonalds, I sat under a tree and overheard a conversation. I wasn’t planning to, and didn’t want to, but my phone was almost dead, and they were talking too loudly. I saw an old man grabbing a boy’s shoulder who seemed to be in his late twenties He seemed very patient with the old man, but he wanted to say something, and he detained himself by pressing his lips together, perhaps he tried to interrupt what the old man wanted to say.

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“Feel my words, both cities are like an order menu: ride, die, or both. You chose to ride because you wanted to. Let’s say you got a motorcycle, esa es tu educación. You got the helmet, that is me and your grandmother, you got the insurance that is your double nationality, mijo, that's being privileged right there. I had no options, my feet needed some shoes, my hands needed to work, and other mouths needed to be fed. You choose a life where crossing everyday might be very different from someone else! For you it is because of la novia, los amigos, la familia, tu madre, but for me? It was a necessity. I was wet crossing the borders, but still, I got so blessed that now I live here with tu abuela. There are people that have to work, not the kind of work that they might want, others have a family, and only see them in the end of the weekends. And dying is not an option, mijo, but unfortunately some people die by narcotráfico, even if your young little eyes haven’t seen it yet, and hopefully you will not. Some people die in a fire at immigration facility, and a lot of people celebrated such thing to happen, and I don’t know if this better or worse, but some people die by those who just woke up, decided to take a weapon and drive several hours to just go and shoot people in a store. People that were innocent, just like you and me, imagined that, like you and me. In all of these cases, the victims are the same: children, woman, man, it doesn’t matter. Violence doesn’t discriminate against anyone, and discrimination exists even within our own, in Juarez or El Paso and beyond. So, I wonder, who do you think will taste such death? Not everyone in both cities might swallow it, but why do I feel like everyone, especially the young, looks away from that? All I ask you, mijo, is to look, to observe, to be grateful, show some kindness, and please, feel my words and eat them, chew and taste it. Like when you were little, and I told you that you needed to eat your vegetables. Every vegetable you eat has vitamins that make you stronger, this is the same. Everyone has a story behind why they cross the border, mijo, so don’t ask questions, don’t assume they don’t know what they are doing, who are we to judge, really? All you need to know is that they all have stories to tell just like you and me, so hear them and don’t forget them, swallow your pride, and digest my words, because that flavor, that bitterness, that is the aftertaste from the past that you don’t want to repeat.”