sin fronteras

I'm on vacation! This is not a poem about being on vacation. 

To live in the Borderlands means you

     are neither hispana india negra española

     ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed

     caught in the crossfire between camps

     while carrying all five races on your back

     not knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowing 

     that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,

     is no longer speaking to you,

     that mexicanas call you rajetas, 

     that denying the Anglo inside you

     is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;

Cuando vives en la frontera

     people walk through you, the wind steals your voice,

     you're a burra, buey, scapegoat,

     forerunner of a new race,

     half and half—both woman and man, neither—

     a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means to

     put chile in the borscht,

     eat whole wheat tortillas,

     speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;

     be stopped by la migra at the border checkpoints;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to

     resist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,

     the pull of the gun barrel,

     the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands

     you are the battleground

     where enemies are kin to each other;

     you are at home, a stranger,

     the border disputes have been settled

     the volley of shots have shattered the truce

     you are wounded, lost in action

     dead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands means

     the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off

     your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart

     pound you pinch you roll you out

     smelling like white bread but dead;

To survive the Borderlands

     you must live sin fronteras

     be a crossroads.

—Gloria Anzaldúa (1942-2004), "To live in the Borderlands means you," from Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987), which is an absolutely incredible book that I cannot recommend highly enough. In the book, this poem comes with a glossary: 

gabacha—a Chicano term for a white woman 

rajetas—literally, "split," that is, having betrayed your word 

burra—donkey

buoy—oxen

sin fronteras—without borders