The Undercover Chicano Speaks (Day 17 Prompt: Risk)

In the hierarchy
of White racism
I see  
two distinct reactions:

 
first,
there is hard hatred
against Black skin
and those who 
inhabit it,
the blacker the skin,
the more virulent
the animus, and

second,
there is soft hatred
against those
who are off-white,
of which I am
one.

Since I am not
as dark as others, 
I do not endure the same 
wrath as they do,
but don't think
this is any kind 

of protection.

As I am 
fair-skinned,
the White racists
sometimes forget
that I am non-White

and let me see 
who they really are

-in all their 

entitled ignorance and ignominy-

and I can test 
in real-time
whether their 
words and actions 
align 
into ethical integrity.

This perspective
is a blessing,
and the finding
is often a curse,

but that's the risk 

you take

when you're 

the Undercover Chicano. 

How I Became a Racist in 1973

Imagine my confusion
when my fourth-grade teacher
kept correcting the way I
pronounced my cousin’s name.

Mr. Brown (ironically named)
confidently proclaimed:
“Roza Linh-deh”
and I countered with
“Rosa Leen-dah,”
which is how I heard it
my entire life.

We did this two-step
for about a minute
until I realized
he was getting mad,
and I didn’t want
to cause trouble
because my Mexican father
would have no problem
belt-whipping me
if he found out I disobeyed
the teacher.

I pretended to struggle,
pronouncing her name
in his blanched,
sterile way,

and then finally
it came, stumbling out
“Roza Linh-deh,”
and I faked smiled
as though I were proud
to have mastered
this deficiency.

He smiled,
genuinely oblivious
to my ruse.

It was one
of the few lessons
I remember from
grammar school.

Weenie-Reeto!

Growing up
my mom used to 
cook leftovers and 
roll them into 
warm flour tortillas
to make burritos
out of anything
and everything.

It didn't have to be 
refried beans or rice,
it could be scrambled eggs
and bacon 
or chili colorado.

She wasn't prejudiced,
food was food.

So, here's my contribution
to the canon of Mexican cuisine:

take one 
all-American hot dog
(the higher the fat content,
the more American)
and microwave it 
for 30 seconds
on a paper towel,

and while that's cooking,
heat over an open flame
one authentic
made-with-lard 
flour tortilla,
and allow it to burn
just a little bit 
like Grandma Trini used to,
and then say 
“the burned part 
is good for you,”

next, unwrap a slice
of American cheese 
and place it 
on the tortilla,
top with the hot dog 
and zap it another 
30 seconds,

then squirt it with
a line of ketchup
(or catsup),

 and roll it up
(don’t forget 
to tuck the bottom in, 
a rookie mistake)

and presto,
you have a weenie-reeto!

The perfect 
all-American snack 
for hungry 
culturally-assimilated 
Mexicans
everywhere!

Es delicioso!

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com where my poetry vatos rock it weakly, but not weekly!  Orale, vamanos!]

Off-White

In pictures with Browns
I look White,
and in pictures of Whites
I look Brown.

Torn between two cultures
feeling like un tonto.

I grew up watching
the Brady Bunch
but listening
to Cheech and Chong.

When I caught a cold
I learned that chicken soup
is ok,
but menudo with
freshly ground oregano
worked better for me,

and a tricked out
Chevy lowrider
beat an SUV
hands down for me.

Pride in my heritage
didn’t start
with achievements or icons,
it started
when I was
no longer embarrassed
that I wasn’t
something else.

Not quite White
Not quite Brown:

Proudly, defiantly

Off-White.

Mexicality FAQ

I am an American
of Mexican descent.

My family didn’t come
to this country,
this country came to us;
we were your hosts.

“No, actually,
the Native Americans
were here first.”

Well, we were
the product of
Spanish conquistadores
conquistadoring
the indigenous peoples.

“So, you’re actually European?”

Ask President Obama
since he’s half White,
which parent he claims?

“But you don’t look
Mexican.”

Thanks,
is that supposed to be
a compliment?

“Great, you can be
our translator!”

No, I only know about
50 words of Spanish,
and while that may qualify
you as being bilingual,
it brands me as
pathetic traitor to my culture
by Mexicans
from Mexico.

“So, were your parents
born here?”

Where, planet Earth?
Yes, specifically
in California and Colorado.

“So, do you celebrate
Cinco de Mayo?”

No, because I’m not
Mexican,
see first question.

“I admire Mexican culture
because they are
so family-oriented.”

Yes, we all come
from families,
and many of us practice
responsible birth control,
and haven’t brought
any children
into this world,
like myself and my brothers
Danny and Paul,
all three of us
college-educated
by the way.

“So you’re probably
for illegal immigration,
or some kind of amnesty.”

Sure,
but to be fair,
make it
retroactive to 1492.

“Why are you
so angry
about your Mexicality?”

I’m sorry,
I’m just tired.

Time for me to curl up
against a lone smooth cactus,
pull the brim of my sombrero
down over my eyes,
and take my siesta.

[This poem was inspired by the Cinco de Mayo display for Corona beer found in my local Southern California grocery story-pictured above.  If you weren't lucky enough to be born Mexican, here's your chance!  Posted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com - my favorite site for poets!]