We Wrote Ourselves In ~by Jennifer Ganoza

They said the city wasn’t built for us.

They said the language would never fit our tongues.

They said our dreams were too loud, too wild, too much.

They forgot:

we come from Abuelitas who ruled mercados like quiet queens,

who folded pride into every meal,

who made small kitchens into sacred ground.

I learned this early—

sitting at the edge of Abuelita’s kitchen,

watching her hands barter for more than goods —

bartering for dignity, for future, for a foothold.

I learned it in the steam of her sopa on Wednesdays,

in the flickering glow of novelas that taught me

how heartbreak bends you —

but never breaks you.

I rode shotgun in my father’s yellow airport truck,

the weight of Mission Street burritos warm on my lap,

the whole city buzzing under my skin,

a language of love bigger than words.

I am made of those moments.

I carry their lessons stitched into my breath,

their stubborn fire blooming in my chest.

We are here.

Because we chose to remember who we are.

We are here.

And we are bringing all of it with us.

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