Daughter of Jesus Caballero and Macrina Colunga-Caballero, I am the product of undocumented migration; the child of an underground network of imaginaries, of dreams, hopes and aspirations, of desires, needs and necessities. As this child, I am the target of a concrete institution that classifies me as a terrorist, an enemy, an anti-American. Through laws, walls, fences, rivers, watchdogs, I am deconstructed fabric-by-fabric and resembled, manipulated and categorized as a political object; as a worthless bare body. While I try to break from the laws that execrate my existence, I delve deeper into the margin of society. It is in this margin where I find guidance and "ganas." In this margin lie my people, immigrants forced to toil in fields, mothers branded as the best home-cleaning machine, children labeled as societies future criminals. Immigration policy digs deep into my constructed margin. It pierces my semi-bronze skin, and bores into my core, into our core. It cuts, burns, and drills itself into our soul. And though at times, living here proves to be more than just an endeavor, much more than just a painful struggle, the margin is my home. Home. It is where home-cooked tortillas and tamales mingle with Anzaldua, Fuentes, and Subcomandante Marcos. Here is where Octavio Paz's cosmopolitan race, lives, thrives, and flourishes. Yo soy la frontera. I am the skin that burns in the Arizona desert, the tears that pour from frightened eyes that search for hope in a long sewage tunnel, the mouth that gasps for air in car trunk. I am the face of the border, I am the margin.