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Being Mixed

Being half-breed doesn't always have its perks.

I like mutts–the people who aren’t afraid to be more than one type of breed. Ones who don’t hide their quirks and their mixed philosophies to appease everyone else. — Belle Jar

Growing up mixed I always had a different approach towards myself and the way I allowed myself to see the world.

High school was hard and interesting, it being a majority African-American, while the Hispanic and white population hardly stood a chance.

Being in classrooms as the minority in a room of a sea of different shades of black really opened my eyes to the world of diversity.

I grew up knowing I was Mexican and white but sometimes to individuals you're either too Mexican or white and not enough for either.

For as long as I've been in this world, experiencing and seeing things, I can say that once people find out that I'm white and Mexican, they forget the whiteness I carry.

So, through my entire time of growing, I can honestly say that I've completely always tried to connect with being Hispanic, and left my heritage of being white to the curb.

It's funny because even being half white, I have never really gotten along with people who are white. Maybe that's a shame, but I have always gotten along with people who are African-American.

Sometimes in the back of my mind, I think if I was around more white and Hispanic kids then maybe I would have thought and acted differently. I'm not saying that I regret being friends with people of African descent.

What I am merely saying is that people say the races of people you are exposed to determine the way you expose yourself to the world. I'm not sure if I believe that.

But I do believe being mixed is not easy, especially when it comes to relationships.

I say this because honestly, parents do not like it when their kids date outside their race. It's unheard of.

Me personally being mixed and dating someone outside my race who is also mixed brings problems. People said to me, you'll deal with problems, stares, and rude comments but I've dealt with those things just being what I am.

My family will never understand and maybe they never will. 

I finally was able to deal with myself when I wrote a poem about being mixed and writing really helped me learn to love myself. Yet, I'm still learning how to.

Yet, it would be a lie if I did not say I have not gotten stares and my family has not tried to ram the idea of my relationship with my boyfriend as a terror more than a happiness down my throat.

My boyfriend is black and Korean, while I'm white and Mexican mixed along with so much, I might as well be considered dang rainbow. It does hurt being told things that follow racism because racism is at every corner. In my poem I tired to address racism at face value.

Mango Queens

My poem based on being mixed...

Hispanic is a census term that some dildo in a government office made up to include all Spanish-speaking brown people. It is especially annoying to Chicanos because it is a catch-all term that includes the Spanish conqueror. By definition, it favors European cultural invasion, not indigenous roots. — Cheech Marin

Hispanic means the frequent companions of American blacks in poverty rankings, Hispanic means a slight step above American blacks in the American race ladder, Hispanic means the chocolate-skinned woman from Peru, Hispanic means the indigenous people of Mexico. Hispanic means the biracial-looking folks from the Dominican Republic. Hispanic means the paler folks from Puerto Rico. Hispanic also means blond, blue-eyed guy from Argentina. All you need to be is Spanish-speaking but not from Spain and voilà, you’re a race called Hispanic.

— Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Find me in the cobblestones of

Basilica de nuestra señora de Guadalupe

Tell my queen of belleza and spice,

that I pray to at night;

maybe I lack self esteem but were exchanging

languges as my tongue only

knows how to stumble over hot sauce

syllables like rapid fire.

White girl,

Weda,

Wedita,

Tap on me

They sing like a song

like Pin pon es un Muneco

Carmel mixed with vanilla

skin, I am a swirl. A daughter

of a man, people think is boarder jumper.

The daughter of an owner

of a house on an American Street.

My veins are rich with native blood,

they run through the veins of leaves

and the barks of trees.

Delicate features,

yet so strong, high cheek

bones blended with hair

that caresses our faces

that pick the sweet mangos.

They ask if my tongue is split?

Lenguas colliding in the

sweetness of papayas,

too american to abide

the taste with the flavor

of betrayed heritge

sitting in the pozo

of the sour mango.

Latinas call me gringa,

White girls call me coyote,

Black girls, say I talk to ghetto,

but they still ask me to translate

spanish to english.

I have become the oppressed,

the impure grain of rice

that doesn't match my white

mother, or my light skinned father.

Too light, too dark,

to cautious to be hispanic

and to free to be milky white.

We are losing our voices,

our language as we are restricted

to hear, "We only Speak English,

In this country."

This country of free speech,

where men ask, "Hey, Shortie

do you got a green card to be

in this country?"

Or "What are you mixed with?

Your pretty to just be white? Or

"Did your cross the border?"

Or my favorite, "Go back to your country?"

Soy de un pais

Vivo en un país y nunca he estado. My skin as dark as the Spanish

ink, I have been soaked in.

Wrapped with massa,

dipped in the holy water,

I am a Rein, the fifth

goddess of Tlazolteotl.

This beauty not often seen,

so foolish men will lust

like chicauchas,

as our curves lead to our hips

adoring our movements.

We are the mango reins,

women of sugar canes that carry

babies upon their backs,

working Green fields of cane.

With hips to embrace our ninos Like munecas

These sidewalks Of so called freedom

say Aye Mami, mamacita,are you from the motherland,

Because you got some flavor Samba,Salsa, and bachata.

Mango queens have the wicked Spanish eyes,

red lips like spice

That mesmerize

las humildes palabras

de poetas

We walk these sidewalks with our

Culture in our tongues, we are

The mango queens, the maids In your

houses and the ones Who raise your children.

Hands on our cinturas With the loud sweet

laughter With winged makeup to show

We are just as bontia as the

Next race above you.

Showing the rebellious Chewing of gum,

as red Lips suck on paletas dulces With giant

dresses With imprinted quincenera Memories

left on our faces.

My hair smells of tamales,

my hands deep in to my ancestors

home, as mole covers my arms,

the grease of tacos stains

my fingertips, for the gell

that brings back my hair.

Red painted on my lips

like Selena Quintella,

I dance to Tejano,

and Reggaton.

My cousins words play

in my head like the strumming

of a spanish guitar.

As the words say your half white,

shut it down for every post,

of supporting the heritage

I choose to be seen in.

I have not accepted that I am White,

I still have not accepted that my skin color, is the inside

of the fruit Zapote Negro.

So what's so wrong with being half Hispanic,

Hiding my quiet accent, covering the milky White I own.

I am a mango queen, Mami, mamacita

a girl of brown heritage that speaks.

My lips are of my anscestors

motherland, my hips a sign

that I can embrace my ninos,

my dark hair a sign of forigen

dialet, and my eyes may be fierce

but terrifed.

I am caught in words of gringa,

swirly, mutt and coyote.

Raised with two ideas, two skin colors,

I never realized I was stuck between,

I am the blood of both races.

My spanish has become the other half,

of the photograph, that my family decides

to show me.

Just like my blood I am just as beautiful

as the land of my ancestors that was stolen

from them like my grandmothers language.

So do not define me from the darkness

of my skin, to the beauty that cannot be

defined by a double standard.

I am made from the flesh and bones

of both lands, made with European hands,

touched by the juices of mexican fruit

and planted in a white skinned belly.

Owned with hips that

are hip to the latin

culture, not all latinas

speak spanish,

so don't label me white

girl.

This poem allowed me to release myself into who I wanted to be and it helped me completely. So, my dear readers who are mixed, you can find yourself and love yourself but remember that reality is what we make it.

Being mixed is forever being told go back to your country, you're a wetback, spic, vanilla and those words will hurt. 

Yet, being mixed opens your eyes to both worlds at once. 

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