![]() ![]() I grew up on rice and Goya oh Boya!–beans from a can–seasoned with jarred Sofrito, Recaito, sprinkled with Sazon. For every book that I read as a kid, I didn’t exist.Įven with the books I finally did find in GRAD SCHOOL, like “Like Water for Chocolate” or ANYTHING by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I still didn’t see myself. To the white girls at my high school, I was definitely not a virgin. Ramirez, and responded to my correction with “same thing,” I was everyone and nobody. To the principal at my high school who called me Ms. To every POC I ever knew, I was 100 percent Boricua from my knock-off Timberlands to my hoopie earrings. That being said, my great-grandmother came from the mountains of Puerto Rico and brought my great-aunts to the Bronx. How can I understand what it is like for the President of the United States to throw me paper-freakin-towels when I’m dealing with the spill of a hurricane? To Puerto Ricans on the island, I’m gringa city. But really who was I? Who am I as a person of color? ![]() ![]() I got more lyrics than the bible got psalms.”- House of Pain I mean “word to your moms, I came to drop bombs. The same person who wore baggy pants, hoodies, bright red lipstick, had giant Dep-gelled hair, and dropped the F bomb. It was because I was speaking in grammatically correct sentences and making allusions to books. What preempted this comment, you ask? Perhaps I was wearing some sort of costume? Perhaps it was dark? Try again. ![]() “What are you?” I can’t express how many times I’ve been asked this exact question by white girls. ![]()
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