Don’t know much about my mothers side
Never felt my grandfathers pride
I wasn’t even an idea when he died
I just know that our name means ‘garden’
‘A fertile land’
Why leave it all behind to be American?
Why don’t I speak spanish?
There are so many things
I want to ask
About the life I could’ve had
I could’ve been a farmer in the grasslands
I could’ve been a tubist in a corrido band
I could’ve been a telenovela stunt man
Just don’t want to be another dull American
But heritage is such a funny thing
Rose tinted glasses, tire swings, and wedding rings
I never knew how much you drank
I wonder if that’s why my mother won’t partake
And I if I ever see El Torreon
Will they smile and say son you’re finally home
Or confirm what I feared all along
I have no culture, no place
No land to call my own
I could’ve been a farmer in the grasslands
I could’ve been a tubist in a corrido band
I could’ve been a telenovela stunt man
Just don’t want to be another dull American
Romanticize it to death
(quien soy?)
But don’t hold your breath
(quien soy?)
I could’ve been the worst drunk you’d ever meet
I could’ve been a white collar in a box seat
I could’ve been a beggar in the cold streets
I don’t want to be feeling so incomplete
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