I Don’t Let Remarks like 'Gringa' or 'White-Washed' Put Me Down

I wake up in the morning.

I smell the aroma of pancakes and freshly brewed black coffee.

My mother and her own mother confer in fluent Spanish,

Their native-born language.

Then my father adds on.

I stay silent, only grasping some words.

But not fully.

“What," I always ask whenever they are done.

My mother begins to translate everything.

I walk outside.

I hear the music of the same exact language.

I should understand what the artists are expressing.

Is it joy, sorrow, fury, love?

I don’t know.

Because I don’t get it.

The words all sound foreign,

Because that’s how they are to me.

I would go to Mexican restaurants.

And every time,

I always ask my mother what this meal is or what this beverage is on the menu.

Will they be spicy? Hot? Will they tickle my nose?

Will I be disgusted? Will I savor the taste?

I’m never sure.

It’s very rare that I do.

Everyone talks.

They understand the language barrier because their ancestors spoke it.

They eat the same foods because they grew up with the meals.

They all drink the exact beverages too.

They sing the lyrics to their favorite Hispanic artists because they understand the art.

They grew up watching children’s sitcoms in Spanish, and now novellas.

I never partake in these things.

Because I grew up speaking English instead.

I grew up eating American cuisines.

I grew up drinking commercially branded sodas and tea.

I grew up listening to American bands and artists.

I grew up watching American cartoons and shows and movies.

And still, I am comfortable with how I’ve lived so far.