I am from the suburbs of America
The leafy and wholesome suburbs of America.
Where things were how they should be.
Where I’m ever drawn back by my memories.
With my friend Ernesto, we roamed the mall after the movies, in my American suburb.
We shot hoops in the driveway of my cousin’s home, in my American suburb.
Hiding behind my bedroom curtains, I stalked our neighbor’s hot son, in my suburb, my American suburb.
I dreamed, fell in love, got my heart broken and cried; I was a closeted homosexual, a spirited young man, a beloved son, a troubled teenager, a grade-B student, a chubby toddler, in my American suburb.
Remember how we spent that whole weekend building our science project in the attic and then it exploded on us?
Our bushy backyards were as lush and filled with adventure as rain forests.
Mom baked the best chocolate cookies, don’t you remember? And we’d almost finish them before she could even take them off the tray.
I wrote a never-sent poem to my first high-school crush and hid it in the depths of my bedroom so that nobody would find it.
But my big brother did, and how he mocked me.
It was laughs, and fun, and sometimes tears, growing in our American suburb.
But even if some made us feel unfit and weird, and school was a very sweet-and-sour place, it felt so good walking back home, every day after class, with you my childhood gang.
We weren’t the most popular, but we stood by each other.
I shared with you guys those golden years. Laughs and tears.
In my American suburb.
What? Don’t you dare repeat that!
I was born there and you know I was.
Don’t call the truth fantasy.
I was born and raised there and there I became the man I am.
My American suburb it was.