My Skin So Pale
by Ysabel Y. Gonzalez

 

My skin as pale as the glowing moon—

Does it carry with it my ancestor’s blood?

My light skin has no trace of Taino Caciques or Yoruba chiefsmen.

 

When I look out at my hands and arms, I see no color lines

Only fair skin as fine as sand.

 

I get my hands on some sticky Twixes and dark Milky Ways

hoping the melted chocolate will somehow stick to my fingers and skin.

I drink sweet cocoa hoping after it runs smoothly down my throat,

it will spill out my pores and drench me. 

 

The only thing my ancestors left me was this body and my hair

but I want more!

 

I want to see a Cacique look back at me when I look into the mirror.

I want to see the Queens of Africa stare back at me in a glass

I want majestic mountains to bow and know that my ancestors

once commanded them and wild lands.

 

I want the world to know that I was born to warriors and an agile people.

 

I want the respect I deserve when walking down these hungry streets.

 

Blood Course

Taino, African and Spanish blood calls out to me

Every other day.

Clouded present takes hold yet I do understand my history.

I beg my ancestors to guide me towards the right light to bask in.

 

I am Borikua.

 

Language mishap takes hold

Entiendes? Entiendes?

Conjugated verbs agree that I disgrace the race.

“Accent lost. If found, please return to Ysabel Gonzalez.”

Blood circulation is cut off from the brain.

 

I am Borikua.

 

My pale skin glows under moonlight.

A banana yellow flesh that screams “privileged.”

A white that denies the fight for my rights.

Colorless. Color less. God spent less time coloring me.

Blood circulation is cut off from the arms.

 

I am Borikua.

 

My feet trip over the beat of congas and timbales.

Hector Lavoe and Tito Puente try to guide my body

towards a smooth Salsa turn and step.

I fall, landing on the knowledge that

Music and dance is a defining factor.

Blood circulation is cut off from the legs.

 

I am Borikua.

 

When I slipped out the womb I was on mainland territory.

And now, suburbs are my place of residence

Where I live with other colorless, spanishless, raceless faces.

“You look lost dear.”

Blood circulation is cut off from the torso.

 

I am Borikua.

 

La bandera is tattooed on my skin because it will always define who I am.

My sense of self.

The blood of my ancestors courses through my veins

Pumped by my Puerto Rican heart.

 

Until the end.

Until I die.

I am Borikua.

 

YSABEL Y. GONZALEZ was raised in Newark, NJ, where she practiced oil painting and various instruments in addition to writing at a tender age. Her poetry and short-story writing began to blossom in high school, where she enjoyed sharing her talents and her love of her Puerto Rican culture in the classroom. Ysabel attended Washington University in St. Louis and Rutgers University. She had her poetry and other literature published in various school newspapers and magazines. In 2008 she had her work published in Struggle magazine, a national publication.

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