When people look at me they judge my appearance.

I don't mind it, it's human nature.

It bothers me when these people choose to define me by their preconceived ideas.

They do not understand history behind a first glance.

You see, I tend to carry myself as a tougher person than I actually am...

I am not your "typical" Latina whatever that preconceived notion may be.

I am what I consider a hybrid.

A fusion of cultures, ones not exactly authentic,

Moreover fabricated to fit the puzzle, yet made with purebred genetics.

An anomaly.

Children like me, we float in a medium between two uncharted lands; promised but never received.

Even then...I'm not special, not even as a hybrid.

I've been told I'm bright, have good academic standing, and I like to think I'm a good person.

Like we all do.

I'm not perfect, yet perfect in my own way.

What good does it serve...when it comes down to the person that defines me by how they see me?

 

So let me explain...

 

1. I am more than my dead-pan bored expression you see once you first meet me. I can wear a warm smile.

2. My crazy dip-dyed hair is a from of self-expression, not an identity issue, nor is it a way to rebel from my parents.

3. This is where and... it is the most crucial point to make... I am my history, my culture, my family, my ancestors.

 

I carry within every inch of my being Guatemalan roots.

This hybrid, this girl, this child of immigrant parents...she bleeds history.

I have stories behind these tired eyes.

Ones only viewed through numbers, letters, and statistics on a sheet of paper.

I was born in this country...

The one my parents immigrated to and made a home in.

I have more opportunities than my parents, ones I a forever thankful for.

But this poem is not about me...

This is a homage to my parents.

The ones who left everything, in return for nothing.

A false promise, never fulfilled.

Unaware of the capitalist slavery they would succumb to, my parents, who despite not knowing the language have raised three Americans.

The two people who have sacrificed comfort in order to provide.

Those who define with stereotypes will never understand...

When my parents stomachs grumbled with hunger, ours were content.

When their bleeding hearts cry out to their motherland, their minds wage war and continue in their agony.

When people mock their rich accents, thick like honey, they hold their chins up.

Being Hispanic should never be worn in shame.

History makes all of us, it creates our future, and binds our past.

Stereotypes and history are not the same.

Children of Immigrant parents!

Do not be embarrassed of your heritage.

Celebrate it. Cherish it. Express it.