Never Enough, Still Latina

It drove me crazy..

That my parents were so caught up in assimilation to give me the gift of me;

the gift that gave me my story;

That my culture was nothing except a box to check off in a questionnaire and two flags to fill up space in an instagram bio.

So when my skin started to itch with pride,

I had no knowledge as to why so I-

Sang with coquis just to sound Puerto Rican enough;

Drank so much coffee to feel Colombian enough,

‘Cause all throughout my life I never felt hispanic enough so I-

Swung on my roots like money bars all the way to San Juan,

But failed to feel free until I reached Palenque

But I still wasn’t enough so I,

Hung on to treble clefs married to salsa flavored sheet music

yearning to know why my feet grew fond of their relationship

And rode back in time on flying chanclas just to figure out who got the first ass whooping;

Just to see where my strength came from. 

I hopped on the cluttered pages of Latino history books no one ever attended to,

Sifting through dust clouds about my conquistador cousins;

my Taino uncles & African aunts,

I learned that I came from bondage;

I came from conquest,

That in past lives I have died,

And resurrected Black on Colombian coasts,

Woke up white playing the Spanish guitar,

then broke through Brown salsa dancing on Spanish Harlem concrete;

By that time it was 1964,

I followed abuelita upon her arrival in New York,

watched her passport get stripped along with her dignity,

her olive skin deteriorate at the hands of wealthy devils,

forced to eat dog food for breakfast,  lunch and dinner,

Abuela ate dog food for a better life, 

she got disrespected for a better life, 

forced to raise 4 kids on welfare in hopes of a better life,

Cooped up in a Coney Island basement with nothing but knitting needles to keep her company, 

while grandpa was passed out cold on the concrete floor.

I traveled all that time and you’d think I’d be fluent in Spanish. 

You’d think I would be..different. 

Truth is,

I had Bandeja Paisa once, and it sucked.

The coquis were sad I couldnt sing like them,

but they still loved me for trying.

No matter how much I’ve learned, I still dont feel like I’m enough, but

Im working on it;

all of it.

How tragic of me to fear I was lost,

but I’ve always had a story.

My blood powered compass eventually led me towards me;

it led me towards knowing;

it led me towards home.