Brigitte Bo Garcia

My heritage has become what I breathe
But when I leave my house that's something you'd never believe
Because the way I speak is too clear and the way I dress is too clean 
And I won't give you that "Latina" sass when you ask me why I look so mean
But as long as I cannot identify as light
I'm looked at with the pity of the privileged
As if I was the one who came here unsolicited
I'm someone who needs help someone who needs support
I must have something to fix - but you see it's all just a trick
everyday i wear a mask
One that hides everything that I lack
Who am I?
Everyone's eyes are like mirrors to them I'm only my appearance
They think they know my definition based off their own recognition
Little do they know my brown skin gives away exactly who I am not
Who I am?
When I'm spoken to in Spanish I feel as if I've been caught
Because on the outside I'm seen as someone
But on the inside I'm questioning who I've become
I constantly have who I should be on my mind
And have this burden of needing to be redefined
Because eventually they all see through me
Who am I?
I am a missing language 
But no it does not mean I've lost my heritage
Yet to some I've completely lost my tongue
White washed - that label that word that's who I am
It tears off my mask and everyone knows I'm a scam
Because the way I speak English is too clear and the way I speak Spanish is something you'll never hear
Because my dance skills are inconsistent and my reading skills are existent 
Because my parents both support me and my life is not a sad story
I identify as Mexican -and American and I identify as privileged
But you'll only hear me say Mexican and give me advice that's unsolicited

"There are scholarships for being brown you should apply”
The paper I’m handed is in Spanish 
I say “I only speak English"
"If you don’t know the language how are you Mexican?"
I wish I knew. Since it’s the only thing people are interested in.
But no one told me my color would be put to the test
Or that I’d somehow always stand out from the rest
Because my mask has now been washed with white
But my skin is still not light and my accent still isn’t right
Because I will always be asked “How are you Mexican?”
It’ll happen again and again the doubt of who I am
And it’ll cause me to believe I will never qualify
I’ll never be true to what you see by eye
And I’ll always ask “Who am I?”