Gia Raquel

My brother has tan skin,

That grows darker under the sun,

You can see the outline of his T-Shirt.

He has chocolate eyes,

And deep, rich hair.

His flat, bare feet match my abuela’s.

 

I am pale beyond help.

My face shifts pink at small misunderstandings,

With freckles upon reddish hues on my nose and cheeks.

My eyes are close to black, cold marble.

My hair has been blonde for the past three years.

 

I look like my father,

A thick New York accent booming through the room,

He is a proud man,

But barely knows beyond por favor and gracias,

For the sake of my abuelos.

 

When I was young, my abuela would sing me to sleep.

I still remember the lullaby that hushed my cries,

Duérmete, duérmete mi niña…

I would stay up late, trying to solve novellas they put on,

Wondering why someone was always yelling, always crying.

During the morning car rides, my mom would play Maná,

Hoping to wake me up by the time we arrived at school,

Translating each word to me,

Because she knew I didn’t understand.

 

It was during high school when I first heard it.

Gringa.

I wasn’t bothered by it,

Not at first.

I laughed because I was the palest Hispanic I knew,

And regardless of what anyone said,

I had the joy of coming home to warm arepas and sancocho after school.

 

I never realized I could be shamed for being proud of my heritage.

I wasn’t taught Spanish as a child.

I grew up learning French.

But that didn’t change how people saw me.

I was a gringa.

And eventually,

That turned into stupid gringa.

 

Tears have DNA.

I wonder if you can trace it all the way to my abuelo’s suffering,

From when he first came here, robbed and lost,

With three dollars to his name, and two children back in Colombia.

 

I see him now,

Weathered by years of damaging work,

Tired eyes and soft, faded hands.

He smiles at me, at everything he has created.

 

I listen to his stories of his home,

Trying to decipher the rapid words escaping his foreign tongue.

As I reply with shaky mirrored words in a cautious accent,

His eyes light up.

And when I look at him,

I know I’m more than just a gringa.