The Glass
Fingering the brim of his
glass of gin and tonic
someone told me the other night
That I look like a Latina.
"Yes, your complexion, your hair,
the way you speak," he said smiling.
I don't know if he meant it as a compliment
or to show he could see the difference.
I didn't bother to ask
how he came up with that.
That night, when I came home
(of course, I ruled out going to his)
I let loose my thick hair,
looked at myself
in a reflective glass
and saw an image
that reminded me of a
Portrait of my mother as a young woman.
No one would have told her
that she looked like a Latina.
It was a different space,
less about colors,
more about class,
less enmeshed in tags and post-its
for the husk that you had.
People had no time to stick these things.
What they were going to eat that day
how they would pay the rent that month
were more important themes to dream
and talk about.
Some were more multilingual than others
Cofán, Secoya, Achuar-shiwiar
Waorani, Quichua, and Chachi
were some of the melodies that
better identified the fauna, the flora,
the geography,
the cuis, the guinea pigs.
There, she would have never been called brown
because those around her were mostly brown
and even those who were not brown
but wore different hues of
of so many colors
were not called people of color.
Even those who were the lightest,
had so many darker people around
That it was impossible to glue any stickies on them
because this blend of colors got too confusing
too mixed up, it ended up being a waste of time
getting help even with clips.
Their difference was not filtered
Through those obsessive, ethnic-searching glasses
The same that could not see beyond
that barricade.
