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IDENTITY--IDENTI-ME
by Carrie Medina
Puerto Rican, Hispanic, Latina, parent, and child to a lesser degree.
For that relationship ceased to exist twenty years ago for me.
The identity I claim is far more than words, simply spilt on a page.
For life is more complex than that for those 'confused and full of rage'.
A pictorial of the influences familial, spiritual, educational,
would give but a glimpse of my life and the culture that has shaped my soul.
I am first, I suppose Puerto Rican. Strange that this identity has grown.
For only a winter spent on an island, and the language is no longer my own.
The island has a mystical, magical, spiritual, call that sings to the souls of its children,
beckoning them to return to a place where some have never been.
The mist of salt water on my lips, the hot sun drying the rain on my face,
nothing forgotten, all is remembered. The scent, the texture, the passion, the taste.
There is a flag on my bumper, a flag on my mirror, proof of identity.
Proof that the driver holds certain ties to jibaro sensibilities.
It calls out, in that loud intrusive way, like the salsa music blaring from my stereo.
It causes other Puerto Ricans to stop and honk, and non Puerto Ricans to stare.
They shake their heads-roll their eyes-and curse those damned Mexicans.
"There goes the neighborhood Louise, get me a taco with cheese."
"Why are you so anti-American?" from peering anglo eyes.
"You don't look Hispanic", is always the word from uneducated, simple, minds.
Oh, to explain to the unenlightened, accepting of diversity.
As long as it is palatable, and not in conflict of the way they know things should be.
How could I be anti-American? Wasn't it you who made me this way?
Bestowed upon me the privileges that fateful spring day?
How conflicting it seems. Oh, and how I must be confused.
For I am not one of them, and I am certainly not one of you.
My stories, they differ from the proper history books,
yet my face is so similar to the way that yours looks.
I could fit in just marvelously and I could even get along.
If only I'd turn off that loud Spanish song.
My name is confusing and not the way we do it here.
When you correct me I begin to wonder what it is that you fear.
The demeaning way you always somehow forget how to say,
for the millionth time his name is Jose.
Assigning my child his cultural contribution to the class.
When he's never even heard of the Macarena dance.
How I anxiously await my return to a place where the senses delight.
Arroz con pollo on the stove, and children laughing into the night.
Where the men can be found, with too much perfume,
and the music is heard in every room.
Where familia and macho are never bad words,
and Papi kisses baby, and plays with his girls.
The sounds of voices at home are made of music and prose.
Soft and deliberate and never in high tones.
Life is not lived by rushing it through till the end.
It must be smelled, and touched, and tasted, with friends.
Where a great grandfathers story, and all his worldly advice,
is always available to help you grow wise.
Children are welcomed with party and song into our community.
There is always more room for another in this large family.
The first or the fifth, it doesn't matter to proud Papi.
as long as were healthy - and happy is Mami.
Each child is treasured, from their first day at the breast,
until this life has ended, and we are laid to rest.
Christmas, or birthday, or Sunday, at Mami's old house.
We see and we breath what life's all about.
A pinch from Tia reminds me to behave in the house of the Lord,
to sit like a lady even when I am bored.
Until we return to my grandmothers house,
with her porcelain angels, and plastic covered couch.
And when it is finally my turn, I wrap up my baby
in the soft worn out blanket once used on me.
My grandfather cries as he holds for the first time
another miracle blessing from a very long line.
He kisses me softly, holds me close, and says "my baby"
and we both know those words were meant for me.
Each day as I enter a world so seemingly harsh and cold,
I remember the words I had once been told:
People will come into your life, and they will go just as fast,
but this is your family and we will always last.
My daughter begins to squirm on the hard cold church pew.
Her Tia, she frowns, and tells her what to do.
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