Draped In Myself
Twirling in the wind, I find myself draped in red, soaked in the colors that they try to peel off of me.
In the Northwest, my brother felt the weight of color. Hair “too curly”, questioned for his skin. The “Other”.
How strange it is that we are kin. In the southwest, I found myself enriched—the part of me once erased, now embraced.
A Colombian, once farm girl. Yet, soon they found another way in. Their words like scalpels fought to remove a part that couldn’t be denied.
In their eyes, my lineage a disgrace. Tainted in white, far too light to be what I claimed. And yes, I know that was a minimal disservice.
So, no. I experience not what my brothers and sisters go through. But nor shall I deny the truth of who I am.
Hence, why I wear this gown that envelops me. It is made not of skin, but of the blood that flows through me.
A Colombian-European. An American.
