To those who came before,

And for those who’ll come after – 

A poem

Deja que mi alma y cuerpo salen de Tu Tierra

Enterrado en un campo de flores

Aunque I am una mockery de mi cultura

Who’ll nunca go on the ofrenda 

When I muera

It’s the death of Hispanic Heritage

Month, I’ve spent months 

Lying to myself

Years claiming I was one of you

Telling myself I could understand

The culture breathing beneath your skin

I wish I could tear my skin off

Replace it with a deeper shade

Yet that wouldn’t color

This bleached white canvas

I carry

Even when our culture blooms

Caught in effervescent dance

With the colored rhythms beneath our skin,

I drown it.

I see you everywhere,

Working, studying, 

Laughing, dancing,

Playing, dreaming,

Once I was one of you

Catching the light

Reflecting off of you

Connected to each other

Celebrating each other

Painting a community

With the light and color I so desperately crave

Sentenced by colonial fate 

To roam

Sins of the parents 

Echoed

In the son’s eyes

Forever cut off 

From you 

Look 

At my pale hands

Touch 

My pale face

Hear

My pale words

I’m afraid

There is never a world 

Where I could be

As beautiful,

As lush,

As alive,

As you.

I love you, 

But no one will know

No one,

Least of all you,

Needs my whitewashed version

Of a Latino life

Instead they’ll feed on

Their sick perverted version

Of your richer life 

I confuse the sights and sounds

Of the TV’s glow

With the shouts and lights

From your backyards.

I’ve said my whole life

“I am Latino”,

I look you in the eyes 

Say it with pride

Despite knowing 

I’m nothing like you

The third generation:

Where culture goes to die.

Did we 

See the temples of Tenochtitlan?

Did we

Watch the sunrise over Machu Picchu?

Did we 

Sit at the shores of Tiwanaku?

Did we 

Roam and wander for eons

Breathing as one Latin America

Coming home once more

Or

Did we 

Bring sickness

Did we 

Bring chains

Did we

Bring war

Did we 

Kill them, rape them

Forced to kill ourselves.

Draining the life from another culture

To build our own

Bury ourselves in white graves

It’s no longer Hispanic Heritage Month

We don’t even get a fucking month

Just the leftovers, the in-between, from 15 to 15

Like they know that our existence is half and half

We’ll tear ourselves apart trying to fit into either

So I sigh as I silently cry

Clutching the Cempasuchil to my heart,

Before I lay it on your graves

Where you’ll lie

Forever

I have a request:

When I muera

Don’t me pones on the ofrenda

No sere parte de my mockery of nuestra cultura

Solo entierrame en un campo de esas flores,

Deja que mi cuerpo y alma regresen a Tu Tierra.

Artist Statement: You don’t hear stories about the third generation. You heard about the first, how they’ve come to a strange land and struggle with adapting to a world hostile to their existence. You hear about the second, how they deal with the expectations of the first and the same cruelty they endured. But you never hear about the third (or those beyond), as they move further and further away from their culture until they are assimilated completely. In the end, does the third generation accept their fate because it was inevitable, or do we choose it because it’s ours?