My name screams my father 2nd generation to live in the US, Brothers and sisters born and raised in the danger of La Ceiba, Surrounded by the drugs, rage, violence, Their fluency of Spanish rolls of their tongue like honey, But everyday I am questioned “Are you really Hispanic?”  My face screams my mother, Born and raised in Boston, never once left the countryRaised in the southern lifestyle, Enveloped in the Northern behavior,Swallowed by the exposure of the streetsBut everyday, I am accused of not being black enough because I speak differently than others  Ridiculed for not being able to follow the flow of Spanish, Teased for not being hip to this rapper, My true self will never be on the table, For my plate has already been made My name is Honduras, My face is American, But I am still trying to understand where I am from