if you needed a sign,
this is it right here.
while you’re out here living just fine,
i’ll be here mending a tear
that was left in my garden.
your tongue’s in your cheek--
excuse if i don’t accept your pardon.
your excuses are weak.
you can’t pronounce my name?
chamo, you didn’t try hard enough.
but correcting you doesn’t fill me with shame
not as much as i once was.
see i’ve been on a path,
a path of loving my locks.
i don’t hold any wrath
but i turn against the orthodox.
because Joropo Llanero fills my ears,
and the taste of learnt seasoning is upon my tongue.
my grandmother’s soft words is what i hear,
even though i am still young.
my face was crafted on old words
my soul was filled with new views.
we are the butterflies, not the birds
and we are far from blue.
my skin like the sand of my father's beaches,
my hair like the curls of my mother's coming of age,
the traditions of my dirt where people stood spoke speeches
i stand now proudly upon a stage.
I carry new perspectives on my shoulders,
but hold my latin heart close.
white hispana scolders--
but is that all, you suppose?
western asian? never heard of her.
boricua, sounds familiar
lebanon, rico and cuba are my mother’s whispers
venezuela is my father’s reconciliar
until i say so the word terrorist never crosses your mind.
arabian princess, i am not.
my spanish speak might be blind,
and as for terror and hate, i find fraught.
call me gringa as you please,
but i know much better.
i’ve discovered my blood with ease,
and i write about it like a love letter.
i dress talk learn breathe for me,
but i live for you.
and i know the roots hold the key,
to turn the lies they fed us untrue.