the struggle of being a white washed Mexican

In the Eagles mouth
By: Clarissa Perez
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Boiling Point
Hotter than enchiladas with sizzling cheese on top
Hard headed
Harder than abuelitas chocolate when you begin to cut it
and angry
angrier than a strong woman pounding her hands back and forth against maiz
Frustrated knowing that I
didn’t and never would belong
Here
Here being the place where
Tapatio could never burn your tongue
or make you cry in shame
But then you recall why you weren’t allowed to join
In the first place
You weren’t
“dark enough to be a Mexican”
And the splash of pozole at night before I laid to bed
Would never have any significance to me
Because I could never comprehend the ingredients of that
Nor of the Spanish language
and I can’t help but feel disconnected
from the fear that my father bares
as he begins to sell all that we’ve become
just in case they take us away.
because I prefer ICE in my horchata
but he doesn’t prefer ICE in our home.
Blinded by the privilege of being an American citizen
Yet I feel sorrow too.
When I try to understand all that my culture has to offer
Or all that I could have offered it
But feeling like a tourist within your own ethnicity
Can make it a place that you wish you hadn’t visited.
And I longed to be as pale as I could be, eating less and less, infatuated with the so called “European Complexion” .
And I tried to smile when they were proud to say,
“You know what Clarissa, you’re going to be successful in life! You talk and act just like a white woman”
And I continued to dance around,
Screeching and begging for them to believe
“I am Mexican! Without question, why are you questioning me?!”
In a big flowy colorful dress
But only in my dreams
As I wish one day to understand what it truly means
To be
A loud and proud
Mexican teen.