“Afro-Latina” de Elizabeth Acevedo

Afro-Latina, How quickly we forget They're in the bending

Camina conmigo. where we come from. and blending
Salsa swagger So remind me, of backbones.
anywhere she go remind me We are deformed
como that I come from and reformed
'¡la negra tiene tumbao! the Taínos of the río beings.
¡Azúcar!' the Aztec, It's in the sway
Dance to the rhythm. the Mayan, of our song,
Beat the drums of my skin. Los Incas, the landscapes
Afrodescendant, los Españoles of our skirts,
the rhythms within. con sus fincas the azúcar
The first language buscando oro, beneath our tongues.
I spoke was Spanish. and the Yoruba Africanos We are
Learned from lullabies que con sus manos the unforeseen children.
whispered in my ear. built a mundo We're not a cultural wedlock,
My parents’ tongue nunca imaginado. hair too kinky for Spain,
was a gift I know I come too wavy for dreadlocks.
which I quickly forgot from stolen gold. So our palms
after realizing From cocoa, tell the cuentos
my peers did not understand it. from sugarcane, of many tierras.
They did not understand me. the children Read our lifeline,
So I rejected of slaves birth of intertwine,
habichuela y mangú, and slave masters. moonbeams
much preferring Happy Meals A beautifully tragic mixture, and starshine.
and Big Macs. a sancocho We are every
Straightening my hair of a race history. ocean crossed.
in imitation of Barbie. And my memory North Star navigates
I was embarrassed can't seem to escape our waters.
by my grandmother’s the thought Our bodies
colorful skirts of lost lives have been bridges.
and my mother’s and indigenous rape. We are the sons
eh brokee inglee Of bittersweet bitterness, and daughters,
which cracked my pride of feeling innate, el destino de mi gente,
when she spoke. the soul of a people, black
So, shit, I would poke fun past, present and fate, brown
at her myself, our stories cannot beautiful.
hoping to lessen be checked into boxes. Viviremos para siempre
the humiliation. They are in the forgotten. Afro-Latinos
Proud to call myself The undocumented, hasta la muerte.
American, the passed-down spoonfuls
a citizen of arroz con dulce
of this nation, a la abuela's knee.
I hated They're the way our hips
Caramel-color skin. skip
Cursed God to the beat of cumbia,
I’d been born merengue
the color of cinnamon. y salsa.