I see the stories of ancestors passed

I see the stories of ancestors passed—
the twinkle in their eyes,
the tear that fears to fall
for fear of shattering it all—
the reality of you and me,
outsiders sitting on the inside,
reaping the blessings of ceremonies
and traditions passed
from grandmother to daughter to you.

Recipes of cacao to hot chocolate,
temezcals turned saunas,
ancient waters turned baths—
we’ve turned what is sacred into dollars in our pockets.
We’ve turned what did not belong into what is “ours.”

This land, these waters, these plants
do not belong to our blood,
for our blood binds us to the lands of our ancestors,
endowing us with gifts—
to weather the sun, battle the critters,
and survive conditions unique to us.

Our divine right is our land—
the land we are born to,
and the family we are born from.

Some of us—many of us—are displaced,
far from our lands,
from what is rightfully ours to call home.
And yet, here we stand
in the land of another,
calling it our own.

As you take from this land—build, grow, profit—
what do you give back in return?

Wounds and tears of a colonialist past?
Inflation no local can withstand?
Poverty in the face of immense fortune?

You say you have a gift—
please, share it.
Not with the tourists,
but with the Mayans.

Spread love and compassion,
understanding and acceptance.
Show them you value
all they have graciously shared with you.

Show them your heart—
your purity of heart—
for it remains true.

Yes, you do not share blood,
but sharing your heart
is the dearest gift of them all.

Show them kindness and gratitude.
Show them you value their customs, their home.

The Mayans share this land with you.
What will you share in return?

Offer penance and gratitude.
Fortitude in values.

Stand tall and support
the farmers, the teachers, the elders—
the Mayans who may truly call this place home.

Stand for them.
And only then
may they invite you home—

to break bread, sip cacao,
and sit in temezcals,
honoring the stories of ancestors passed.