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Chicana Anger

23 Jan
People might not understand my anger, my rage. They see a white girl with vaguely dark features….she could be Hispanic or Greek. Well motherfuckers, I am both Chicana and Greek! And a mescla of some bastardized white bastard. The color of my skin doesn’t do me justice. I’ve assimilated into two cultures I was born into; I am a mutt, a mulatta. But to my gente, I am someone to look at cautiously, even when I’ve been vouched for. Then they realize I’m as dark as they, but still translate things to me. ¡Comprendo putos! Are you not listening to my Southside accent and vernacular? To his people, honky, liberally spoon-fed NAFTA corn by conservatives, I am the result of breeding with Mexicans. I am a defiant, loud, gender-smashing, animal loving stranger. A stranger. Una Malinche…eerr Maryanne.
 
I am angry because everyone paternalistically lied to me: teachers, police officers, my aunts and uncles, mis abuelos, my parents, my church, my government, my society, myself. I internalized, as we all internalize, values, morals, and beliefs set to be the status quo, docility reigns. I did what they told me to do and went to college. I wasn’t angry, I was scared. I did look like, act like, know like most of my “peers.” I spent $100 on a new phone so not to be so embarrassed by the Nokia Brick circa 2002. I hated myself. Ms. Powers told me my vanity is not vain. The contradictions should not freeze me—we all have them. Dismantle from within. Lie to those motherfuckers like they lied to you. Put on your smile, get the power, then dismantle. The Brooklyn Bridge and my best bud are my last memories of that Power. If she jumped off, the ripple of her powerful body hitting the cement water finally reached me. I am a warrior now too.
 
I am an angry Chicana Warrior. I know this now. The veil is gone.
I see the world how I see the world and not how I was told to see the world.
You do not see the world as I see the world. And that’s fine.
I will lift your veil if you want. I will expose the violences and you will hate me for it. And that’s fine.
And you will ache, cry, scream, laugh, and want to die without your veil, but your body, mind, and soul will not be docile.
Then you are free.
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Posted by on January 23, 2013 in Her stories

 

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