Code-Switching Tests
In Santa Fe
they’ll ask you to say
Chimichanga
to see if you can hang.
If you pass the initial review
you’ll find the prevalence
of your name being replaced by “cracker”
inversely proportional to the amount
of times you whoop your friends’ asses
in Jalapeño eating competitions
but you’ll always be the token
and as white and fluffy as a Ritz.
In Theatre circles
it simplifies things
if you prefer to lay down
your little fiddle diddles on
analogous genitals
but a beat ass face of makeup
and a kiki when your baritenor
boys hit a high G
will do in a jiffy.
The straight white men
are where it gets tricky.
You may forget how hard
it is to blend in
if you spend the majority
of your life on the fringes
of the straighter side of the spectrum
of your day-to-day soulmates.
But normies are inherently suspicious
of bent wrists.
They can sometimes get nervous
around fast movements
or shorts that stop mid-thigh.
You may lull yourself into thinking
that you are passing smoothly
until people start to slink away from conversations
because they read your smile
as an advance.
You’re somewhat in the clear
if you find the ones
whose eyes light up
when you mention some nerd shit
like how A Clash of Kings
is the worst book in the series.
You know you couldn’t
code-switch about sports
if your life depended on it.
Which one day
it might.
The straighties don’t want you
the queers are still working out where to put ya.
You’ve grown to be a full-on gringo
with a spice tolerance
of the fragile british toddler
you are deep down.
When you wear a suit
or cargo pants
you can generally reap the benefits
of the hegemonic power
of the stark white wand
you were gifted at birth
but that doesn’t earn you a place
at any table.
But at home you can let your voice settle
into its quasi-femme waves
of cracking and curving.
You can sing into the shower
in a voice that would make
your best bisexual Mexican music theatre friend
cringe and grab hold of your straight white little larynx.
You can talk to your baby doll
that once got shamed out
of fourth grade pajama day
and a chance of a public life.
And you can be whatever
nondescript humanoid
queer half-lesbian
albino radio attanae
you want to be.
In Santa Fe
they’ll ask you to say
Chimichanga
to see if you can hang.
If you pass the initial review
you’ll find the prevalence
of your name being replaced by “cracker”
inversely proportional to the amount
of times you whoop your friends’ asses
in Jalapeño eating competitions
but you’ll always be the token
and as white and fluffy as a Ritz.
In Theatre circles
it simplifies things
if you prefer to lay down
your little fiddle diddles on
analogous genitals
but a beat ass face of makeup
and a kiki when your baritenor
boys hit a high G
will do in a jiffy.
The straight white men
are where it gets tricky.
You may forget how hard
it is to blend in
if you spend the majority
of your life on the fringes
of the straighter side of the spectrum
of your day-to-day soulmates.
But normies are inherently suspicious
of bent wrists.
They can sometimes get nervous
around fast movements
or shorts that stop mid-thigh.
You may lull yourself into thinking
that you are passing smoothly
until people start to slink away from conversations
because they read your smile
as an advance.
You’re somewhat in the clear
if you find the ones
whose eyes light up
when you mention some nerd shit
like how A Clash of Kings
is the worst book in the series.
You know you couldn’t
code-switch about sports
if your life depended on it.
Which one day
it might.
The straighties don’t want you
the queers are still working out where to put ya.
You’ve grown to be a full-on gringo
with a spice tolerance
of the fragile british toddler
you are deep down.
When you wear a suit
or cargo pants
you can generally reap the benefits
of the hegemonic power
of the stark white wand
you were gifted at birth
but that doesn’t earn you a place
at any table.
But at home you can let your voice settle
into its quasi-femme waves
of cracking and curving.
You can sing into the shower
in a voice that would make
your best bisexual Mexican music theatre friend
cringe and grab hold of your straight white little larynx.
You can talk to your baby doll
that once got shamed out
of fourth grade pajama day
and a chance of a public life.
And you can be whatever
nondescript humanoid
queer half-lesbian
albino radio attanae
you want to be.