Identity is pretty messy, and simply being "Mexican" barely covers the truth—there are so many threads that make up my messy tapestry, and there are so many that I still need to unfold to find their meaning. I was born in Mexico City, but I grew up in Tijuana until I was 18—a city receiving the internal displacement due to neoliberal politics, the war on drugs, and colonisation. Living in Tijuana was constantly living at the crossroads—navigating several languages, cultures, and spaces. Sometimes, we were guests in Turtle Island, but a few hundred metres away we were aliens, beaners, and illegals.