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Silently in the back she sits, everyday in every class, Waiting for the bell to ring like a spilling hourglass. Her name remains anonymous to all except the teacher,
Necisito un boligrafo, por favor Oh, I need a pen! Gracias por la manzana Oh, I meant thanks for the apple Hablo español, y habla un poco inglés No, I meant I speak both Soy de Puerto Rico
She went back to her room where her favorite song was just ending at the best part. The little twinkles that faded with a high D flat that made her emotions fall apart.
Being A Hispanic was hard The black sheep they say, the same but different Looked at ashamed by the ones we call our people looked at different by the country we said was united
Each kid proudly sang and the whole courtyard was filled with high pitched voices and laughter. Little bodies of deep tan skin, about twenty of them. Michael, the leader of the classroom.
America What we call the greatest country THAT’S A LIE
Pale and blue-eyed they call me a gringa but that's not who I am. Some say that I'm lucky that I don't look like a stereotype, but we are people, not Jeopardy questions
When I leave my corazón de melón, You're the reason mommy will be alright. Alone you won't be. Close el diablito out of your mind. Your decisions lead to your futrure. Eyes are meant to see the truth
through my brown skin and monolid eyes, through the sunspots on my cheeks and my short stature, the entirety of the philippines and mexico sits in my dna. soaring through my veins and searing through my skin
Un día cruzamos e ilumine tu día con el sol de mis ojos Las horas y días como arena pasaron
My momma told to never be afraid of anything, but two things El cucuy and sometimes her chancla. I was raised in a ear pulling, frijole smelling, cumbia playing
We are the epitome of pride and success Leaders in our fields-and in the fields Melanin seeps in our skin Pride runs through our veins
Dear Land of the Free, Was it me you thought of when you wrote your century old laws? Was it my family you thought of when you tore families apart as a part of you're manifest destiny?
When was the last time a young girl wasn’t dress-coded or sexualized just because it was 85 degrees outside? When was the last time an immigrant earned enough money from one job to support their family?
My people hunted here, Where white people now stand, And where are my brothers, In Oklahoma, where we were pushed away. My friends are hated, For being black, Asian or Hispanic,
the faint smell of crayons, adhesive, and floor wax filled the air. i shot an anxious smile at my mother and she nodded.
Who I am Am I my long Spanish name? Or am I the tongues of those who cannot pronounce it? [Can't I just call you Maria?] Am I my full, curvaceous, petite body frame?
Start of something new Never ending soon From football and cross Now running on the track Oh the memories, now a loss
The place I call home -Jessica Jazmin Michaca Silva I come from a place where families are always united I come from a place where music is always blasting at every corner
Living without my identity is like slipping through the drain on the side of the road. Flowing away with the water Nowhere to be seen. As if I could be seen.
When you're little you won't notice. Perhaps, they won't even do anything for you to notice. You'll live your toddler days in sweet unknowing bliss. But that's only if you're lucky.
Growing up in a border town, I felt like the runt in a litter of kittens My skin was a few shades lighter than everyone else that every time a teacher turned off the lights, everyone assumed that I would glow in the dark
Could I fill the swollen suit of a man so large: Quien vivió en las torres de la mente de su pueblo,
I was born beautiful. Society will tell me different. I have curly hair. Long, tangly, brown, curly locks. I grew to hate my hair. I was 5, already craving to use a hair straightner.
I know America I can speak it But not sing it For I sing unusually In a separate language “Mi vida Americana”
Yo soy Chicano I am Chicano My brown skin hides the stories running through my blood So that you hafta get to know me to learn from me
Do you remember that smile? When my words jumped a mile a minute and I didn’t have to think before I said a thing Do you remember madre? How every day I would sing the same song? Don’t you remember?
CUIDADO I scream as I walk down the hallway
I know I might not have been born in a Hispanic Country,
Unjust, Unequal Rejection, Deceiving, Disdain Emotions I still retain Bias
The watermelon is sticky between my fingersInfinite hues spread across the mountainWhere i lay my head on your chestWe press our bodies togetherTight.
To some, everything comes naturally. Money, fame, is recieved upon birth. I am not one of those people. My parents are not famous, nor are they rich. We originate from Colombia, the land of Cocaine.
What would you change? What would I change? I'd chage the way peole think, Get rid of the unnceccasary judgement. Who needs that? Certainy not we. We have the power to learn,
If I could change the world, I would abolish prejudice; Or the bumpy past, That created it. No race more superior, No size more supreme. Only happiness, And positivity gleamed.
The other day one of my friends said to me "Jaz...you have no idea how many guys check you out whenyou walk by. I found that really intersting. Considering that here, int he Midwest I don't feel beautiful.
Darkened in the sun Like dried up raisins Sun dried our roots Plucking our knowledge of heritage
It hurts, that you judge But you’ll never know I keep it inside Buried below All my pain, And my pride,
My mom knows how to make tamales, Yours does not. My mom knows how to shred the chicken with such grace Yours does not. My mom knows how to pound the masa with such pace Yours does not.
To whom it may concern: What is it about me that frightens you? Is it the way I talk? The way I walk? The way I’m shy? If you really get to know me I am a nice and sweet guy.
Met a man on the street today, black shoes, black glasses, black skin Talked a while about this age we're living in Told me his story, how he'd nearly made history Until he realized the strings were pulled by white hands