Mi vida diferente
Andrea Aviles

I can start to say the melanin in my body is pure. The air that I breathe is toxic.
The food that I digest is junk.
The shade of my hair and eyes? Black.
The color of my skin? Caramel.
I’m an American that defines herself as a Hispanic.
I’m not ashamed of the cooking that goes on back in the kitchen.
I’m not ashamed of the vics I use around my elbows, nose and mastoid bones.
I’m not ashamed of the words that I learn from my church.
I’m grateful for my ancestors, I wouldn’t be boring like the rest of my
classmates.
I love to dance to beats.
I like to move my hips to batchata, merengue, cumbia y punta.
I love to cook.
I love to wake up every-morning and boil water para aser cafe BUSTELO.
But I dislike waking up in the mornings listening to los tigres del norte cada
sábado.
I find a few things unfair about my culture, my language isn’t always welcomed.
My people are in danger.
Separation— falls into the category deportation.
“Unsensational”
“don’t worry about those Mexicans”
“Those jobs are going to be ours again soon.”
Pero mira, my mind is pasted from one to another.
“Make America great again." Isn’t a grand gesture.
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