"To Be Remembered: A Review of José Hernández Díaz’s 'Bad Mexican, Bad American'" by José Valle Quintero

José Hernández Díaz’s Bad Mexican, Bad American (Acre Books, 2024) is a collection of 63 poems representing the complexities of the Mexican-American experience with humor, heart, and earnestness. The poems come from personal experiences, daydreams, and fantasies, but all have Hernandez Diaz’s voice inherently present. While the collection relies heavily on the unique experience of growing up between two cultures, the pieces are approachable to all.
Hernandez Diaz is a 2017 NEA Poetry Fellow, the author of The Fire Eater (Texas Review Press, 2020), The Parachutist (Sundress Publications, 2025), and the forthcoming Portrait of the Artist as a Brown Man (Red Hen Press, 2025). He has been published in the Yale Review, the London Magazine, and the Southern Review. He teaches generative workshops for Hugo House, Lighthouse Writers Workshops, The Writer’s Center, and the University of Tennesee at Knoxville. Additionally, he serves as a Poetry Mentor in The Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program. His two poems, “The Seventh Grade” and “The Gym” have been previously published in Issue Eight (Fall 2021) of MORIA. He originates from Norwalk, California.
In Bad Mexican, Bad American, Hernandez Diaz gives the reader an understanding of what it’s like to be Mexican-American from the very start, in the opening poem, “Ballad of the West Coast Mexican American/Chicanx”: “My American friends think I'm too Mexican. / My Mexican friends think I’m too American. / My Mexican-American friends are my road dogs.” This is the age-old dilemma of the Chicano, never enough for the güeros and never enough for la raza — only the pochos like you understand.
In “Familia,” Hernandez Diaz encapsulates the Latino immigrant experience with some simple and profound words: “I don’t talk about my personal life much. Why / complain? I had a loving family who took care of me. A roof over my head. / Beans and tortillas on the stove. / Sure there were eight of us in two rooms, / but we had plenty of space for love and / quarrels of course . . . ” Something that I, as a first-generation Mexican immigrant, can deeply relate to. An ideology that all of us with fuego en la sangre know is that no matter how hard we have it, we’re blessed to have what we do. Unlike many of our brethren, we’re happy just to be surrounded by those we love, something Hernandez Diaz emphasizes with the lines, “My siblings / all went to college, but we know that / true education lies in your roots,” and then wraps with the most beautiful bow: “Our culture is a badge of pride. / Our culture, nuestra cultura, will never die.”
Among poems about the difficulty of language and vivid imagery of the harsh reality that many minority groups arise from, we find a beautiful love letter to, not just Hernandez Diaz’s mother, but all immigrant mothers whose first language was not that of the Anglo. In “My Mother’s ‘Broken’ English,” the poet writes that she “Is more beautiful than a Neruda poem. / Is always managing to get by.” Hernandez Diaz is not simply talking about the command of a language but about the life of a migrant; while many come to this country with the dream of making it big and changing their families legacy, the reality is often different. Hardly ever does the migrant with lofty dreams and hopes get to see that change of circumstance; the change comes generations later, built on the sacrifices of the original dreamer.
Hernandez Diaz also touches on the experience of the Mexican woman, who he says “Is commanding yet vulnerable.” Although our culture thinks of itself as matriarchal, at the end of the day we suffer from the patriarchal reality that our European ancestors brought upon us. The Mexican woman can be fierce, strong, and outspoken but ultimately will be expected to fall in line with and answer to a man, which makes her vulnerable, physically and socially. Yet every great Mexican man became the way he is because of the influence of his mother. Our fathers would hardly ever speak to us of their pride in or love for us; rather, the job to inspire and comfort us is forever falling to our mother’s, the strongest of all our citizens. As Hernandes Diaz suggests, these figures of maternal strength “Can calm me down or lift me up.”
Finally, in the titular poem, “Bad Mexican, Bad American,” Hernandez Diaz gives his most poignant and impactful lines: “It was said before me, it will be said after: how you treat / Folks is all that matters, to the dying question: / How do you want to be remembered?” As a filmmaker this is a question that I often ponder on, as a first-generation college graduate this question haunts me. But in the matter of three lines, Hernandez Diaz changes my worldview, perhaps simply just saying out loud what many of us already know. Fame and fortune will not tell our stories when we’re gone, but those we treat with love and compassion will. Nuestra cultura is built on storytelling, our people shared stories of the sun, the moon, and the eternal dance of life and death, and Hernandez Diaz continues this tradition. He may be seen by others — and maybe even by himself — as a “bad Mexican,” but in the humble opinion of this born-and-raised Jaliciense, he’s La Raza through and through.

José valle Quintero

José Valle, Jr., was born in Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico, and immigrated to the United States at age seven, growing up in Payson, Utah. A filmmaker pursuing a career as a writer and director to help increase Latin-American representation in American cinema, he spends his free time writing, watching films, listening to old jazz and rock records, as well as spending time with his dog, Zuko. José is grateful to have had the opportunity to work alongside the talented staff at MORIA and hopes to take the lessons he learned from his time with the team with him for the rest of his life.