As a fourth generation Chicana unicorn, I have much to learn of my own heritage. I finally pronounce mi apellido in Spanish, I try foods and learn recipes, savoring impressions of countries and cultures not of my birth but of our collective past.

I see her running, and this time I can touch her. White sneakers trek through mud and brush by night when it is the moon that lights her path. When the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, she retreats.

Time separates those who came before us from those who will come after. It regards us as a whole. An infinite witness of events as they occur. It makes sense of our own existence. It is a logical explanation when you think about it.

La historia de mi madre es la de una niña cuya voz resonaba en los campos cuando su padre le pedía que cantara una canción mientras recogían la siembra. Una voz chiquita que lograba llenar de alegría a los jornaleros que con entusiasmo pedían “otra, otra”, y ella cantaba.