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Born in classic white suburbia, The most American Dream of cities. Gifted with white picket fences, Highly rated schools, And a Mexican population of 3.2%.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when I discovered I was Mexican Of course, I always knew But snippets of realization Sprinkled into my lifetime of 16 years
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
Undocumented aliens, Racists see them as the enemies They’re trying to make a living for themselves, Not to mention for their families. Getting deported by I.C.E So hard to comprehend
Rojo, meaning red. It is the hue of our blood and what keeps coursing through our veins to keep us alive. On my flag it is the color to represent the union of Europe and the Americas,
Black coffee, dirty nails, Calloused hands open a morning paper. Smeared ink, mirrored print, A gloomy world must be brightened somehow.
My light skin and colored eyesguarantee me a place in society.They also provide amistaken identity.
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
Roses are red, Violets are blue Band is my passion, as should be for you I play the tuba and march as well Being the shortest Mexican girl My section believes in me as I do them
1492. The year America stopped being great, and turned into a country full of abusement, a center of hate.
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
“This country is great”I am an immigrant.My dad came as a dreamer,my mother a nervous wreck,and I, the unwilling participant.
Nothing more what elese to say? Have our days been counted? What to do but pray? I live a life of oppresion And being brown is my obsession But how has my color helped me?
I cannot stand by and lie to the people my family left behind in another country and tell them that we live great lives I cannot look them in the eyes when I think of the confederate flags I see hanging outside
I live in a magical world where a land called borderlandia exists, where my ancestors slaved away to provide for their familia. So I could be here today, I am pieces of my ancestors.
Two souls live in my body One has endless American pride The other likes to hide American I am called by brilliance Mexican by my appearnce Land of the free and of the brave is for the snobby
"How are you even here right now?" I got here by myself, my own merits and determination! "Yeah right! You Mexicans are what's wrong with this nation!"
I am am a warrior who never stops fighting I am a proud Mexican female who is not afraid to show her roots I am courageous and piercing despite my accent
[SHE OPENS THE DOORS AS PER USUAL, LETTING IN ORANGE SUNLIGHT AND A SOFT BREEZE UNTAMED BY THE HEAT. A SMALL DRYING LEAF FLIES INTO THE STEPS, LANDS IN THE FLOOR OF THE HOUSE’S ENTRANCE. SHE KICKS IT BACK OUT.]
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
I come from the birds and the bees, or at least that's what they once told me i come from outer space, i'm an alien and I'm on a spaceship moving back and forth through time.
Do I look like a criminal or rapist? I'm not a criminal and I'm not rapist I am angry. I am angry that people who support Donald Trump are proud of it
Yo soy Irma
Because I have imperfect Spanish, I am never Mexican enough to those who speak better than me Because I have imperfect English, I am always too Mexican for those who speak better than me
In respone to Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, and Julia Alvarez: I, too, sing America, I am westernized over my Mexican heritage.
I am from the unknown, from the sweet nector and the pillow of comfort, i am from sweaty skins all around, (rasping,damp,sun biting my skin) i am from the iris, the oak tree, birds here and there
“Yo soy morena-clara.” I am in the middle of the spectrum, between dark cocoa and light vanilla skin. I am caramel mocha or medium deep according to makeup industries.
They call us thieves - filthy, hungry, bean-eating wetback thieves. They look at our brown skin and sneer. But they do not know who we really are.
I am excited for things to come things have come
Hated onAnd beat uponBecause the way they live Is "wrong" Who are you to take the role Go and take another's soul
Everyday is the same as yesterday I fight to be a new me but it always flees The chance to change my families name itches at my mind That new me must come up and rise
i wonder who it could be that would want me for me who could include my faults in whats best of me why cant i see when will he show its been a dream of mine he holds the key
No father mother here but really there I am here but really where? nature or really nurture?
Nationality from the South Separated from the U.S With a giant wall Go back home they say Go hop over they say This is home I say I belong here I say Nationality from the South
Welcome to Chicanos- r-us We service all of your needs Will school principals go to isle 12? We still have a few janitors here Desperate for a job Yes, they are Mexican Ready for their graveyard shift
Everytime I look at a paper it has: Black, White, Chinese, Indian, etc... Why can't it just say American? I don't want to be labeled as those things, I'm not black, I'm not white, I'm just an American.
This land has been alterd every corner i turn i see my people suffer the fire in our soul heavily burns. we've been building a land for generations a place founded by love, peace and communication
His game was astronomical This young boy who loved to hunt In the underbrush of the forest sun halve past twelve A fox appeared ahead Golden fur and bright brown eyes
Just dust I am, but God did mold my soul I saw the light but I was born in war My place of birth, no food it bore only war The crops did die; the men did die and die My mom did flee, my dad as well and I.
Though my skin is white, I still have to fight. For education, equality, acceptance. I promise I'm bright. Actually, I'm Hispanic, but you couldn't tell by my skin. Call myself hispanic, and it's considered a sin.
It is the color from which we rise The color of rich soil from a land uninhabited and fertile That soon became home to innovative civilizations The Americas’ first mathematicians, astronomers, and writers
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.
I was born out of two genocides. The first of European colonization the destruction of my Aztec bloodline, by my blonde hair green eyed grandfather making me Mexican, being that I was born and raised on our fertile land...