Along the streets my grandmother walked as a child, I watch brown backs in wifebeaters work their way through crowds. It’s the Day of the Dead festival, and I wait for someone to crack a joke about their backs, sweat-stained and hunched, like my father’s when he mows our lawn; but it’s me making the joke as I walk to grab some carne asada tacos and maybe a cup of mango, jicama, and watermelon, dusted with Tajin and a dash of lime. My cousins and I wear masks, our faces painted bone-shock white against mestizo skin. Here, what’s a minority? I used to think being a minority meant you had to suffer—my nana’s metacarpals shattered by the Catholic school ruler or my great grandfather’s swollen joints after twelve hours of baking bread. These days, I think I’ll find my cousin on the street or off the highway, the one who has over-dosed far too many times to be alive, and yet, he’s here, begging. Forgive me. Forgive me. I keep walking.