afro con latina

My mother.

The curls of her hair

a mystery we could never find the end of

with various ringlets

creating a spongy wall around her head.

 

My black mother

has a hard time admitting she's different from others.

Has a hard time admitting her hair can never be compared to others

no matter how many times they swear

they know how to deal with the enigma of hair,

she will always end up in square one.

Always end up pretending her traits aren't of importance to our community.

She will erase her culture to satisfy a white society.

She is hatred wrapped up in one.

She is a white man's nightmare

without a single inch of awareness.

 

She is a black women

who wipes out her heritage in favor of fitting in.

 

She is afrolatina

except she classifies herself latina, period.

She squashes her past

like her father did his.

Not a single male figure in her life

who could blame her

for wanting to believe she's like the rest.

 

She is afraid to be proud of her father's side.

She never had a family to honor her blackness,

never had any traditions,

never had any acceptance.

 

Put the afro con latina and you get a disrespected woman.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
Our world

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