Mexico has the highest per capita consumption rates of sugary drinks globally, contributing to rising rates of obesity and type 2 diabetes. Mexican-Americans face a higher risk of diabetes compared to many other ethnic groups in the United States. War kitchen looks like
Empty shelves Clean pantry No sauces no spices no sabor No splatter on the stovetop Looks like Low carb no sugar on a diet watch your weight Intermittent fasting paleo keto vegan organic low glycemic index Licked pulled rubbed sampled chopped minced sliced seared broiled marinated Anything except seasoned Cause that’s too much calories. War body feels like Needles in palms, body stiff, going numb, Tingling in your feet, Running across deserts, across borders, across the streets of Los Angeles, Running just to burn off calories and nothing more Feels like a prick in your index finger to check your glucose High A1C high cholesterol and a low desire to keep fighting your body every day Feels like waking up at 4:30 in the morning to go to work Feels like missing holidays because the city won’t run if you don’t Feels like heavy eyelids and machine-gun nightmares Only for your doctor to tell you that you should try getting some more sleep. Feels like the heavy burden of being told to be lighter - Lose weight, lose inches, lose those lonjas, lose yourself in the process Because desde que eras niña you’ve always been a little tragona Always taken up too much space Always been just a little too much. War dinner tastes like Soda-rotted teeth Because your grandfather once knew how to tap agave But sweat and calloused hands and bruised knees cost more in labor Than cane sugar in an aluminum can. Nicking your arms on thorns is a lost art. In a place where a bottle of water costs more than a Coca-Cola, Why would it come as a surprise When 35% of the population is diabetic? Dinner tastes like A grumbling stomach and late-night binges, Tastes like Cauliflower rice, zucchini noodles, lettuce wraps After some balding wrinkly doctor told you no more tortillas, no more elotes, Cause I know how your people love that kind of stuff. War Isn’t always bombs. It includes bombs but that’s not all of it. War is waged on the battlegrounds of our bodies, In South Montebello grocery stores and in sterile, white doctors’ offices, Gunfire rages in the 99¢ Chiquita bananas and the $3.99 Driscoll’s strawberries, It is a grenade held in the palms of farmworkers who feed the world But cannot feed themselves, It explodes, finally, in the produce bin of my refrigerator. And so, In the smallest way I know how, I become the guerilla fighter, Waving a victory flag of red salsa and green peppers on my white dinner plate, Armed with crowded shelves, Sunday potlucks, dirty pantries, Sauces and spices and sabor, And a giant mess in the kitchen.
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