Tonight the moon guards the tears my sister hides. She cries because she can’t hold back the pain, like most of us. A difficult pain that has taken hold of her heart since a young age. Is it physical? It might as well be because the pain she feels is as real as a stab in the heart.

Yes, we were raised under corrupted ideologies, where men are supposed to make the “real” decisions. Yes, we were all raised under machismo. Clearly people see us as exotic, as fierce. An uncontrollable, furious breed of women. It is only because we are oppressed by the men’s desire to populate. We are labeled as exotic creatures because the white men in this reality seem to find enjoyment in making women of color an object not a partner.

Yes, we were raised under machismo, the one who breaks the first is the weakest link. In between us latinos, mi raza, in reality tell me who is the one that breaks first? Out of all la raza whose husbands cheated on them, who stayed strong to raise the children. For all the latina moms who had to find solutions to problems that were centuries old. Where the problem has already began to take hold permanently in our sun kissed souls. To my latina women, who had to deal with the after effects of this sadness, who has to remain strong for the generations of depressed men.

To all the mami’s and abuelita’s who had to take care of their alcoholic, drug addicted sons, because in the end we only see them as misguided.

To the mamitas who wanted their strong daughters to have an honest living but because our brown women are designated an imaginary place that is forever impossible.

Because unfortunately for us we live in a reality where there is no room to escape… no room to escape the scrutiny of white man’s words.

Because the white man’s words slither around our bodies and bind our ankles to endless pits of darkness… we can’t even own ourselves.

Because our words of wisdom are only heard if we’re their mother’s. They listen to their mother’s so well… so well, so where did we fail?

See we all knew at some point that life wasn’t so forgiving for us. But after our ninos seeing their own madre’s being beaten and betrayed so many times by la vida, where in their heart would they have room to hurt more of our own.

So many years of this betrayal, so many years of being strong, so many years of having to heal our own wounds… when does it all stop

Apparently never.


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