To live in the Borderlands means you

          are neither hispana india negra española
          ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed
          caught in the crossfire between camps
          while carrying all five races on your back
          not knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowing
           that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
           is no longer speaking to you,
           that mexicanas call you rajetas,
           that denying the Anglo inside you
           is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black

Cuando vives en la frontera
           people walk through you, the wind steals your voice,
           you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat,
           forerunner of a new race
           half and half— both woman and man, neither—
           a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means to
           put chile in the borscht
           eat whole wheat tortillas
           speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
           be stopped by la migra at the border checkpoints;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
           resist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,
           the pull of the gun barrel,

           the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands
           you are the battleground
           where enemies are kin to each other;
           you are at home, a stranger,
           the border disputes have been settled
           the volley of shots have shattered the truce
           you are wounded, lost in action,
           dead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands means
           the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off
           your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
           pound you pinch you roll you out
           smelling like white bread but dead;

To survive the Borderlands
           you must live sin fronteras
           be a crossroads.  

—-Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands: La Frontera, the New Mestiza