u/True-Cartographer613

Mi papá fue deportado a México después de vivir muchos años en Estados Unidos y empezó a descubrir muchas cosas turbias dentro de la familia. Durante años él mandó dinero a su tío y a mi abuelo para comprar propiedades e invertir en terrenos y casas en San Luis Potosí, pero todo se hacía “de palabra” porque confiaba en la familia. Ahora resulta que varias propiedades quedaron a nombre de otras personas y no quieren regresárselas. Lo peor es que al parecer esto no pasó solo una vez, sino múltiples veces con diferentes propiedades y familiares. Mi abuelo siempre tuvo muchas conexiones y era de esas personas que fácilmente podían pagar abogados, contadores o notarios para mover papeles o hacer las cosas a su favor. Mi papá siente que se aprovecharon de que estaba en Estados Unidos trabajando y mandando dinero. ¿Alguien ha vivido algo parecido en México? ¿Qué tan difícil es recuperar propiedades cuando el dinero salió de una persona pero las escrituras quedaron a nombre de otra? ¿Qué tipo de abogado recomiendan o qué pruebas sirven más en estos casos?

I thought I had a speech impediment.
That I was slow.
That maybe a muscle in my face had been torn wrong at birth.

But later I realized it was just an accent.

My tongue is the first in my bloodline forced to dance to this tune.
My mouth still reaches for home every time it opens.

English sits heavy on me.
Like teaching a river to flow backward.
Like tying branches of a tree into shapes they were never meant to grow.

My mouth reacts like a reflex.
Like autocorrect.
Constantly translating before I even have the chance to think.
Bending sounds into something more acceptable.
Something easier for others to digest.

There are certain words my tongue still trips over,
not because it is broken,
but because it remembers another language first.

People hear hesitation.
I hear generations colliding inside my mouth.

My mother tongue lives in the muscles of my face,
in the way I roll my r’s too long,
in the pauses where Spanish still tries to save me before English arrives.

Sometimes I envy people whose mouths were born belonging here.
Whose sentences walk out effortlessly without an accent dragging behind them like luggage.

But then I remember:
my tongue crossed borders before the rest of me ever could.

It survived.
Even after being bent into new sounds,
it still carries the echo of where I came from.

I thought I had a speech impediment.
That I was slow.
That maybe a muscle in my face had been torn wrong at birth.

But later I realized it was just an accent.

My tongue is the first in my bloodline forced to dance to this tune.
My mouth still reaches for home every time it opens.

English sits heavy on me.
Like teaching a river to flow backward.
Like tying branches of a tree into shapes they were never meant to grow.

My mouth reacts like a reflex.
Like autocorrect.
Constantly translating before I even have the chance to think.
Bending sounds into something more acceptable.
Something easier for others to digest.

There are certain words my tongue still trips over,
not because it is broken,
but because it remembers another language first.

People hear hesitation.
I hear generations colliding inside my mouth.

My mother tongue lives in the muscles of my face,
in the way I roll my r’s too long,
in the pauses where Spanish still tries to save me before English arrives.

Sometimes I envy people whose mouths were born belonging here.
Whose sentences walk out effortlessly without an accent dragging behind them like luggage.

But then I remember:
my tongue crossed borders before the rest of me ever could.

It survived.
Even after being bent into new sounds,
it still carries the echo of where I came from.

🪴

[removed]