The Other Girl
I hear the word but it isn’t me
It must be someone else ’cause it isn’t me
Brown skin obsidian eyes and hair sure, but that’s not my label
That isn’t me.
I’m programmed to see what I want to see
I am her of which you speak but I am also me
You see the her,
The Girl sitting at the bus stop on a sticky afternoon
TheĀ Girl hanging her damp laundry out in the yard
The Girl brewing sweet cinnamon tea
Is her not me
I am plugged in
I am aware
I am one of Fred Rodgers’ colorblind soldiers
Able to see the possibility of tomorrow
Able to use the technology of to day
Able to dream, to wonder
The rainbow connection
The college graduate
The creative
The political
The astute and prolific
But all you see is her not Me
Yes we are bound, forever intertwined
But I don’t speak how you want her to speak
I don’t know the origins of the Aztecs, Toltec and Maya
The history of Chavez of Villa
The glory of La Raza, Protected by La Vigren
Because I’m not her, I’m me
The older I get the more our lines blur
I use her to get a scholarship
Or a leg up in an interview
And put her away as the artist only to find her pop up again
White washed
Cocoanut
Beaner
White-xican
I am all and none of these
I am the Daughter of a District Manager, printer, gardner
I am the Daughter of an insurance claim adjuster, housewife, hairdresser
I am the contradiction, the second generation
The assimilation product of a suburban master planned community
I am the her that you see
I am the me that I am
I am the oxymoron, contradiction in terms