Gunshots

There is a fear embedded in me, raised into me, injected into my DNA.

I watched my father warn my brother as he grew older—beware of the way

you present yourself to others.

A tall, young, strong black man inserts the fear of God in many an “innocent” dame.

Many are incarcerated for being themselves,

for using their God-given voice,

for dressing in “rags”—the only clothing they may be able to afford.

 

I drive down the country road, the beautiful trees

and open fields haunt me with the fear of being treated as a criminal.

I wear my skin like a handicap, trying to hide it through my words,

my behavior, and my clothes.

The idea that “fitting in” entails being white has pushed its way into my brain

through years and years of seeing nothing but prejudice against my kind.

I turn to my own seeking shelter and find nothing but rejection.

 

An Oreo, they call me: black on the outside white on the inside.

“You’re not black”, I hear it from white people.

“You ain’t a nigga,” I hear it from black people.

“You’re not Latina,” I hear it from the brown people.

I fit in nowhere, I’m none of the above, and no one cares to claim me as their own.

 

My skin is dark but I am cultured, educated, and well-spoken.

They deny me the right that comes with the color of my skin.

I speak English better than I speak Spanish—I was born Hispanic

but they consider me an American.

They deny me the right that comes with my birthplace.

I was raised outside the USA—there are gaps in my understanding of this culture.

My tastes, values, and experiences differ from theirs.

“Oh, I forget you’re not a real American,” they say.

They deny me the right that comes with the place I call home.

 

If I hear a gunshot in the distance, do I know I’m home?

Can I not enjoy one of Beethoven’s Scherzos without losing a place to call my own?

If I don’t eat apple pie, have I committed an unforgivable sin?

If I jump in a pool and sink, will I somehow fit in?

 

By and by I’ve come to realize that I will be a foreigner until the day I die.

Nowhere do I fit in, nowhere am I left out; there is a middle ground in which I reside.

 

I don’t belong in any one world but my own.

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