my name is elie katzenson and i'll be reading mona // changa, a zine i published in january 2019. when I was a kid, people would ask if my mom was biologically related to me. i looked white and she didn't. around MLK day, seven year old me asked my mom if she was black. that's when she said it was time to leave colorado (one of the more ironic state names). she is anita carolina. i'm maria elise. my grandmother is emilia trujillo. my grandfather is rumaldo. northern new mexico hosts many lineages- chaves and mondragons, medinas, romeros, and garcias. 'rural'. perpetually pregnant. anxiety disorders. cicel on his 8th DUI. we don't know exactly who came before us but we know that we have been here for a long time. the term genizaro came up in the news recently, in a new york times article detailing the history of indian slaves who were sold to hispanic families in the 18th and 19th centuries. genizaros, like black slaves, took the surnames of their masters, and converted to their religion. in the southwest, that religion was catholicism. i envy people with tribal membership, because it's proof. my face is confusing to people who know i'm not white, and it's also confusing to me. my mom is at a crafts fair in taos, and an indian man running a booth asks which tribe is hers. she says "what tribe?" he smirks- "ah, slave indian." three generations ago my family wouldn't go out at night because of the brujas, witches that would fuck you up. my great great grandmother was a curandera who rode great distances on horseback to deliver babies and dispel madness. i wonder if perhaps their catholicism was not a contradiction, a faith with censers, the body of christ, and over 10000 saints. sage smudges our censers, the body of christ better as a sopaipilla. the prevalence of 'nervousness' in generation after generation. poor yes too many people in your business yes afraid of water yes (rumaldo never took a bath more than three inches high). emilia trujillo grew up the oldest of eight in an adobe homestead in the llano /prairie where people got eaten by bears, lit themselves on fire, and made their own clothes while praying a lot. many years later, my uncle, a rancher, exploded his insides with benzos and booze. my mom denies that she has ever been the victim of racism. i remember the crowded pool at a shithole retirement community in the outskirts of tucson and the community offer singling her out to ask for her visitor's pass, all eyes on us. my father has affectionately called her a squaw. in her mind, ignoring racism removes its power over you. in my mind, to ignore is to let fester. i want to belong here, to know that i am unequivocally of these people & this place. being mixed, that belonging might never be unequivocal- but i can rejoice in the intricacies and mysteries of our existence, keep on keepin' on.