I Am Well Aware That I Am White

I am well aware that I am “white”.

I know what you mean when you call me “gringa”.

I understand when you talk about “your” country.

I know because I have been taught to know.
I know because this is the language that is repeated and repeated.

Accepted.

If I were to see with my artist’s eye

I would say that my skin is a peachy complexion spotted with different sized freckles, and beauty markets. Pimples and scars. Blonde hairs and black tattoos.

But people would laugh at this.

People would call me a hippie.

People would think I’m a dreamer.

People would tell me to get off my high-horse.

If I were to see with my soul

I would say that I am a human.

The heart that beats within me is replicated in you.

If I were to see with the pupils of my eyes

And the shadows of the day

In the context of time

I would say that today I am pale.

And two weeks ago I was light-brown, and a bit sunburned on my shoulders.

But people would say

That I am white.

People would say

That I am a Gringa.

If I were to see

What you see

When you call me a Gringa

What would it be?

Would it be a passport that gives me more freedom to travel than yours?

Would it be a stamp that my government gives me more readily than it gives you?

Would it be higher prices for taxi rides and street tacos?

Would it be ignorance and conceit?

Ego and appropriation?

Injustice, international trade agreements, abuse?

If I were to see, what you see, when you call me a Gringa, what would it be?

Would it be a good life? Easy money? College education?

Would it be stress? Anxiety? Modern illnesses and lost culture?

If I were to see

What I think I see

When you call me Gringa

I see just connotations

Attached to a word

That really just means

That my skin is white

Sometimes.

I understand what you mean

When you talk about your country.

You were born here

And that is beautiful.

Your country is beautiful.

You are beautiful.

And if I were to see

Just the land

The rolling greens

And the boundless blues

I would not know

Which grass to call Costa Rica

And which greens to call Nicaragua

And I would care for them equally

Because one does not give me more oxygen than the other

And before I was taught

This language that is repeated and repeated

USA, Gringa, Central America

I knew that I am just a child

Of the Earth

And sometimes

When you say

White

Gringa

My Country

Yours

I actually helps me, instead, to remember

That what is mine

Is ours.

This space. Of greens. And blues. And different colored people.

Is ours to share.

But, people will say that I am just a dreamer.

I know what you mean when you say these words

Because I say them, too

Because this is the language we repeat

And repeat

It does not offend me.

Because inside I know

What I am

But, sometimes, I get exhausted. You know?

Because I am a white gringa living in your country.

By choice.

Totally.

So I accept this challenge.

Of a language repeated daily

Of the same questions, asked

Thrown at me

In a net full of negative

And positive connotations.

About what it means to be a white gringa living in your country. 

So, excuse me if sometimes

I respond to you

In a way that is defensive

Or dream-like

Or delusional

It is just that sometimes

My motherly instincts kick in

And I want to protect

What is mine

That is ours

Which is my human heart.

And universal soul.