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     Be born in Tijuana; have a Mexican background, but be adopted by two 
Hoosiers; don’t worry, you’ll know what a Hoosier is later; don’t memorize your 
mother’s face, you’ll have a picture of her later; don’t remember all the details of 
the process, you’ll have the adoption explained to you by your new parents. They 
aren’t new, they have always been your parents. Go to Indiana, settle down in a 
quiet town like New Pal, a sleepy town, frozen in time. On the high shelf, your 
only form of contact to the other world sits high above your head: rough, itchy 
blankets, a pair of miniature dolls with their black suit and white and red dress, 
a baby’s straw sombrero—aren’t they nice mantel pieces? Don’t open the na-
vy-blue tote yet, let it sit in the closet under the folded Lego boxes. Pay attention 
to the two beanie babies on the dresser, one red with the Mexican flag on its chest 
and the other splashed with red, white, and blue, undoubtedly the American one. 
Get a younger sister; be mistaken as the younger brother because you’re less re-
sponsible. Be seen at church; get mistaken as her boyfriend by the other kids. Her 
blue eyes and your brown eyes don’t match. It’s okay, they didn’t know you were 
adopted. Take a look in the tote, even if you’re not bothered by the adoption yet.

     Go to the county fairgrounds, be approached by fellow Hispanics—after all, 
you’re one of them, right? ¿Dónde están los baños? Listen as they speak too fast; 
say you don’t speak Spanish but in English of course; let their daughter trans-
late the message, she understands two languages. Why not you? Get exposed 
as a fraud; take Spanish classes throughout high school; then take more classes 
at college; great, now you can read at a second-grade level; join the school’s 
Latino club, you’ll fit right in, right? Go watch their dramatic movies, see their 
tarot cards, and taste inoffensive flavors of catered Qdoba. Realize something is 
off, you’re not connecting, like an observer but not part of the whole. You’re not 
picking up their de’s or los’s or keeping up with their language, or your lan-
guage? It’s becoming a whole cultural class, and you’re already taking too many 
classes.

     Get overwhelmed with school and stop going to the club. Great, you didn’t 
plan for this extended spring-break; leave the school, just for a minute, online 
work is better anyways; pause, open your blue tote now, just once more; some 
other blankets, dried palm leaves; look, her photo; that’s your mom, or your real 
mom, or your birth parent? She could not have been taller than 5’ 4”, given how 
the kitchen cabinets towered over her. Read her face, her tiny, brown eyes, the 
thin strands of hair framing her face. Nothing, there is nothing to read from her 
distant face. Imagine her voice, what she must have said to you before handing 
you off; be careful putting the photo back in the box, or you’ll ruin the memory; 
you are a Hoosier, an American. Go ahead, take more classes, do more tutoring 
sessions, connect to other Hispanic clubs; do these things, even when you don’t 
fit in; you may never become fully Mexican, but you are still Mexican, and hey, 
being bilingual is a worthy skill. You could travel back to Tijuana, talk to your 

Xavier Neier

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second mother, hear her voice again for the first time. Have you thought about 
what you want to say to her? You’ll figure it out as the years go by.