one time a boy told me he liked my straight hair better
i told him but that's not my natural hair
i felt insulted

and he said "what are you talking about?"
"i'm complimenting you"

i brushed it off
put the thought away

but as i stare in my reflection
as i touch the coarse, thick curls
my mother and father bestowed upon on me
passed down from generations
of mexican ancestry

i felt the hurt
i felt the words in my head
"maybe if your hair was straighter
lighter
maybe if your skin was lighter
maybe if your nose was smaller
and pointed"
maybe then i would be the perfect
version of myself

but as i began to notice
flowers sprouting in the women around me
loving, appreciating their thick untamable manes
my mind began to flourish
away from the deception
i had been told my whole life
a bold lie
that changed the perception of myself
that made me scrub my skin in attempt to make it lighter
a lie, so discreet and so subtle
that my self esteem descended to nothing
when looking at the natural reflection of my skin, my hair, my eyes, my hands

as a child
as a teenager
i believed the lie

but as a young woman now
i can tell you
it's deception, oppression
to keep woman of color
at inferiority to the european white

embrace your curls
embrace your melanin
embrace your wide set hips
embrace all the things you were once told to hide

i will be who i was born to be
and i don't need anyone's opinion
on how my hair looks

this is who i am
a mexican daughter
wise enough to recognize
the strength and beauty in our differences

For a long time I was very scared to write about my emotions. For even longer than that, I've been very scared of writing about emotional experiences. I mean, I wrote about them, but I put them in the context.

I let a metaphoric poem tell the world about molestation or depression. I danced around the fire as it burned me, hoping my wild movements might appease some higher god into letting me forget myself.

I'm not condemning anyone who finds strength in this form of poetry, I just wasnt doing it for that reason. For me, metaphor was an escape not a release. I looked around at the pages laid before me and found only stepping stones into memories I'd have rather forgotten. Playing hopscotch on the fingers of child molesters.

When I was very young, I was woken in the middle of the night by a stranger's hands down my pants. He whispered I'd be okay as I tried to push him away until I finally got up and left the room. My cousin sat on the couch to the side of me. As I walked away he proceeded to touch her too. It was probably around 3 in the morning. My family, or the ones who could stay awake, were drinking heavily and talking loudly about things I didn't understand. I sat in a stairwell hidden from them. Close enough for them to hear me breathing. And I couldn't muster the courage to tell them what had happened. What was happening just downstairs to my cousin of the same age.

For a long time I tried to make people laugh. Because I was too sad to know why and I didn't know how to show it. I moved my fingers across the fine lines on people's faces and scrunched my nose at them. I hated them for being what I wanted. For laughing like I wished I could.

I let laughter find me a path to peoples happiness hoping it would come to me. But it never did. I lost myself in being a person I never wanted to be and I did it because I thought contentment was in someone else.

When I was a little boy my mom was dating a man named Danny. I'm sure by now I've blocked out every memory of this man except the one that lives with me. A memory torn in two because I see my sister and my mom. My sister a mirror image of myself, wrapped in duct tape from head to toe like a mummy. Nose and mouth too. Danny's handiwork. Were both shouting through silver tape, and trying to let someone know that our air is finite and our lungs are small. My mom finally tells Danny to stop. Not concerned so much as annoyed.

For a long time I tried to **** myself. I walked a razor line tying together old bits of my skin and dragging them behind me. Sewing the solid chunks of plain happiness to the rotting vibrant gangrene of my depressed parts. Hoping I could heal all the decomposed skin with a little bit of happy motivation.

I let other people remind me of who I was. Forgetting all the time and being reminded again and again so I could try to be someone new. Someone only they could see.

When I was a teenager, my dad and stepmom came up with a system for helping me lose weight. At any chance they'd get, they would make small remarks or comments about how my weight affected me daily. From how far down the car drops when I step in it, to my girlfriend's must be cheating on me cause why me. I didn't realize this was supposed to be for help. So I began to see myself as who I was and to this day I can't see my girlfriend walking down the street near another person without wondering if they are together because I'm a fat slob. I can't get in a car without wondering if anyone's noticed how much its moved because I've stepped in. At this point, I'm just hoping for the heart attack.

For a long time. I was only the pieces of myself I let other people see. I was a mirror that caught every Whisper and disgusted glance and fell apart whenever I actually saw myself. I couldn't be me. But this mirror is broken and cracked, all the chips replaced with parts from different mirrors.

I let that mirror shatter recently. And it's scary trying to decide who I am. In a world full of people holding up mirrors.

"You're Mexican?! You don't look Mexican?"
             "What's Mexican supposed to look like?"
"Oh, you know... Sombrero, a curly twirly mustache, maybe like holding a taco!"
            "I am eating a taco."

"No, like a real taco.
One that is like made in Mexico,
with like Mexican beans,
and Mexican ladies.
You know what I mean."
           "No, I don't."

"What's it like? Did you have a quinceanera thingy? Do you speak Spanish?"
           "No and no."
"What?! Then you like aren't a real Mexican. All Mexicans can habla Espanol."

            "Oh, you know what. I forgot. I know what it is."
"What?"
             "I'm not just Mexican, I'm German too."
"That makes like total sense. No wonder you can't speak Spanish. But wait, like were your family Nazis?"

when I was a child
a tremor entered me
and did not leave me for several years
I sat quivering in fear
as I heard a belt striking bare skin
I could almost feel it on my own
'obedece a tu familia'
and I did
this legacy of destructive love
and punishment instilled
by the ancestors of my grandfather
it was in many a scorching summer days
that brought about unadulterated joy
yet so much misery
tempers flared
but we would just keep dancing
playing
obligatory kissing strangers on the cheeks
until it was time to leave
and then I would lay under the cool sheets
my bare feet blackened with the dirt
from outside
hoping that tomorrow I would gain a
little more courage
or become somebody else

What others might see it as a Mexican game,
In my eyes it means so much more.
It symbolizes the unity and bond between family
Each loteria card reminds me of someond
Like la valiente reprents my mother,
Strong and brave
It also reminds me of how life works.
Sometimes it may look like you are winning
But end up losing. Or vise versa.
When you you thougth you have lose it all,
A sudden turn happens and win.