The Wildcat Den
The sunset drapes gold and pink over the city,
melting against adobe walls,
where murals breathe stories
of ancestors who once danced in the dust.
The scent of carne asada curls through the air,
mixing with the spice of tamarindo,
a melody of flavor, a song of home.
Neon papel picado flutters in the breeze,
whispers of color against the vast blue,
but here, in these halls
white, sterile, cold
I am a desert bloom wilting in the shade.
The voices of mi gente echo outside,
banda spilling from an open car window,
while inside, my cultured is silenced,
twisted, mispronounced
a thing they do not care to carry
on their tongues.
The red and blue walls of the Wildcat Den
stand bold, loud, unshaken,
but I wonder if they’ve ever known
the weight of feeling small.
The administration paints banners in Spanglish,
Diversidad, Equidad, Inclusión printed in bold,
They host panels on belonging,
but the seats at the table
are still the same color.
They sell culture in brochures,
but won’t pay for the voices
they claim to uplift.
I walk through the saguaros,
tall, alone, resilient,
their arms stretched upward, as if asking, as if pleading
Where do I belong?
Tucson, you are fire and fiesta,
roots and rhythm,
but in the quiet corners of this place,
I am just a shadow,
watching the city burn bright
from the outskirts of belonging.
Mijo, You Belong
Mijo, you belong.
Even when their silence speaks louder than words,
even when they make you feel like a visitor
in a place your ancestors built,
you belong.
They will try to make you doubt it,
dress their indifference in polite smiles,
call you a “diversity win”
but never ask your story.
They will act as if you are lucky to be here,
but mijo, this land already knows your name.
Listen,
to the footsteps of those who walked before you,
to the songs carried on the wind,
to the voices in the mercado,
the laughter in the barrio,
the whispers of mesquite trees
who have seen it all and still stand tall.
They will measure your worth in test scores,
in how well you can mold yourself
to fit their world.
But you are not here to shrink.
You are not here to be made small.
You are the child of luchadores,
of immigrants, of dreamers, of poets.
The saguaros do not ask for permission to grow,
they simply reach for the sky.
So stand mijo. Stand tall.
Let your roots dig deep,
let your voice carry strong,
let them know you are here
not as a guest,
but as a force.
And when they try to push you out,
when they say there is no space,
make your own.
Carve your name into the sandstone,
paint your colors on the walls,
let the future look back and see
that you were always meant to be.
Patrick is a first-generation Mexican American born and raised in Tucson, Arizona. He completed his Bachelor of Psychology at the University of Arizona and is currently pursuing a PhD at the University of Pittsburgh, where his research centers on how Latino youth and families thrive under structural stressors across multiple contexts, including neighborhoods, schools, and home. His work also investigates how trauma exposure influences developmental processes in Latino/a communities, with an emphasis on identifying risk and resilience factors that shape mental health, academic trajectories, and social development across Latin America and the border regions between the United States and Mexico. His writing draws from the same well as his research, grounded in the textures, colors, and lived experiences of the Latino communities that continue to inspire him.