Does it bother you that I’m not Mexican?
My skin is brown,
but I was born in the United States.
My father was born in Mexico,
en la frontera.
However, it’s just not that simple.
The world has to assign me a role to understand me.
There’s always a box that needs to be checked.
The closest thing I can say is I’m Hispanic,
even though I don’t speak Spanish.
Am I white European? I speak English and my ancestors come from Spain.
So please excuse me.
I don’t dress up in Mercado regalia
to celebrate Mexican Independence Day
when I identify as American
because that’s where I was born and grew up.
I didn’t grow up Mexican.
I didn’t grow up Chicana.
I didn’t grow up Mexican American,
and I didn’t even grow up American Mexican.
My mom is Indian.
“Which kind, the feather or the red dot?”
But she was born in Africa.
“Wait, she’s not black?”
Are you more perplexed?
My name is Arabic.
My family is originally from Pakistan,
which is technically Asian.
Either way, in an effort not to terrorize anyone,
I’ll just hide my identity.
And no, I don’t mean under a hijab.
I meant your comfort is prioritized over mine.
I grew up within a multilingual,
diverse cultural and ethnic background.
Apparently, that’s too complex
for those who accept the colonization
of being boxed in.
Why must I show pride
by participating in a system
where I’m the colonized and the colonizer?
I don’t enter those arenas
with written declarations.
Who do you need to witness
your testimony about me,
as if it changes your worth?
While others are busy constructing their ladders,
I’m busy crafting my existence.
And I understand it’s upsetting
to see me be me
when you tried with all your might
to dominate and threaten me.
Exerting personal agendas
to surveil, stalk, classify, and categorize me
only created a boundary
where I found sovereignty,
forced to think outside the box.
