Many of us have been feeling a bit hopeless about the state of things. I have always been one to figure out ways that I can help drive change, and one of those ways has been educating people about my experience as a Latina. If people are brave enough to ask questions, I’m happy to oblige and get a conversation started. One lunch break, a couple of guys came into the conversation and took the wind out of my sails. This was the gist of my reply (updated a bit for flow):
I’m Not Sorry
Identity matters.
People have absolutely no idea of the level of racist commentary I come across every day.
EVERY DAY! Not exaggerating, arms flailing.
I’m told, “I don’t see color!”
What you’re really telling me is, you don’t see the rich cultural background that I am part of.
You don’t see my coffee and cream skin.
You don’t see my struggles to be where I am now.
You don’t see the way my hips sway to the music.
You don’t see the love and research I put into my cooking. My kitchen is love.
You don’t see the sensual, the earth, the power in my hoopy earrings.
You don’t see my history.
It is EXHAUSTING to not be seen. These are essential parts of who I am.
Free time is spent educating people. It is NOT MY JOB. But in the time I have done it, I have opened eyes to the level of things occurring that many people are blind to. So I continue.
Most often I’m patient, courteous, friendly, but friends – I’m afraid I’ve reached my breaking point.
I ask to be called Latina. I’m told its too inconvenient/hard/difficult to remember.
I get that there are a lot of identifiers for those who are Latino.
I want to talk history. I’m told its semantics.
Shut down when I’m looking to be lifted up. Semantics is an axe to my expression.
Descriptors are important. They tell a history. People on this continent have been through colonialism, imperialism, and genocide.
I’m not sorry that I’m asking for my identity to be acknowledged.
I’m not sorry for calling people out.
I’m not sorry for refusing to be erased.
I’m not part of this mystical melting pot that never existed. I am Native. My family has been here for LITERAL EONS.
Forgive me if I was chatting to other Latinos about what we would like to identify ourselves as – no not forgive me, fuck you.
We have been conquered and raped, our histories burned to the ground by Franciscan/Catholic churches.
We have been deported as United States citizens and our land sold if we didn’t matter. There are families that never recovered from their ancestral lands being sold to the highest white bidder.
We are used for our strong bodies to feed and pick fruit and farm for the only people who can afford fresh produce.
My family comes from migrant workers, so yes, we deserve the title Chicano. My mom marched with the Cesar Chavez movement.
My great grandmother had Pancho fucking-Villa take over her Pueblo so yes, I call myself Mexicana. I am Mescalero Apache and Tarahumara. My family is the blood of this god damn continent.
I’m not sorry if I wanted to have a polite conversation celebrating all of the different descriptors that tell a story of where we came from.
These aren’t made for your consumption.
Want to know? Just ask. If I can politely manage pronouns of all kinds for the people I love, you can ask as well.
I’m not sorry about there being “too many” and it “being hard” for you. You come from a point of power.
Boo – fucking – hoo that it is complicated.
Not sorry.
NOT SORRY.
