As I look at my golden orange brown skin I wonder if I fit in it because I don’t tightly fit the words of things you say I am.
When you see me walking I’m not sure what you see. I don’t even know what I see when I look in the mirror. I don’t know how to describe myself to others, and I can’t tell you 3 things about myself or my favorite song in an introduction. My skin doesn’t match what you THINK America is suppose to be like, and I question that because my skin and it’s neighbors of shades are all I’ve ever seen.
Even surrounded by my own community I was an outcast. I wasn’t suppose to like reading, having hobbies was strange, I was suppose to like dancing, I was suppose to like corn tortillas, I was suppose to wear color, but nothing bright that clashed with my skin. Tattoos are trashy on women, piercings are unprofessional, and having a man was essential to be what my mom thought was a Hispanic daughter.
But mom...I like wearing black. I have piercings on my face, I have tattoos, I like colored hair, I like to read, I like to paint, I enjoy collecting dolls, I date men outside my culture/race, I married without your consent, I don’t follow a specific religion, I enjoy decor of naked women, I even like women... so who am I?
My husband is dressed in his shalwar kameez headed to the mosque and I’m in a black T-shirt next to him, it feels fine... but not outside my home. And he knows this too because my clothing is only questioned in public . We don’t match. We have never matched. All the men I’ve been with I have never matched, and they never cared. They knew I was always gonna be secret so they never cared enough about it to consider my fashion sense or body modifications wrong.
And I don’t match my beautiful slim sister, I don’t match my tall handsome brother. I’m just there...the weird one. Although my Spanish playlist is what I listen to the most as I drive to work in scrubs and colored hair... I don’t match and I’m not Hispanic enough. But to people lighter than me, even other Hispanics, I am Hispanic enough because my skin is toasted.
Am I Hispanic or not? But we can break it down more.
To Mexicans I’m not Mexican because my father is Salvadoran.
To Salvadorans I’m not Salvadoran because my mom is Mexican.
And to Mexico and El Salvador I’m nothing cause I was born in America.
But in American I’m nothing because my parents are from there.
And in public I’m nothing because I’m fat and dress outside my body shape, in black or like vintage hippie.
And to my husband’s family I’m nothing because I’m not Muslim or Pakistani.
I’m Hispanic regardless because that’s a label I can’t remove although my family claims I’ve removed it, lost it, and gave myself the label of WHITE.
I’m given the title of WHITE because I read, I draw, speak English more, have broken Spanish, and wear the clothing I do, because I’m a LIBERAL and care too much about feminism, racism; and everything in between.
But that’s not white to the whites either.
And that’s not white to the other shades of brown.
So as I walk down ft worth Texas in the stock yards, in a black satin dress with my fat arms exposed, my piercings shining and glistening in the sunlight, drawing attention away from my fat nose and small eyes, next to a brown man with an accident and “strange clothing” I will tel the people not to stare.
I will say “no no listen, I am not Hispanic enough for my family, I am not enough for my husband’s family, I speak English more, I read, I went to college, I still go to school, I don’t live at home” is that okay for you? Is that enough for you to accept I am not here or there, so take me as I am and ignore your views and labels you give me because I do not fit the mold for that either?
I’ll just wait until I get home and take off the baggage of not having a label and wonder once again...who am I?
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