A word belched towards my direction walking past Amsterdam Avenue,
A couple of questions I pondered while rushing past them with precipitance.
Infuriated I became,
Noticing why there is attrition within Dominican culture I’ve been ridden with.
Either my skin is too light for anyone darker than I,
Considered white by anyone with skin as light as mine!…
No one ever is with my image.
By different languages,
Only when I’m mashing plantains inside of my kitchen…
Besides what I’ve laid out on my own plate,
I have to eat everybody’s judgment anyway!
Even if it’s similar to theirs.
“Tu no eres como nosotros!”
“You are not like us!”
Where was I raised?
By hands that plucked roots from a range!
Of cities far from the one choosing to deface!
My character of what made my identity in the distant Past…
When my seed was planted,
It was watered by tears Mom and my Grandmother spilled to fill my tummy up with Mangu or Frijoles during dinner.
Ear drums banged with the sounds of Bachata,
And the tales of a wicked dictator tied to a Pop,
Showing me the way out a life of a born sinner.
Family reunions full of aunts and uncles born and raised on the Island I so wish to be considered a part of…
It doesn’t really matter when I walk through the city without Family to look after.
Anytime I hear,
I keep walking while noting one more reason to rap first thing in the morning,
Without mourning any contact blurring my vision!
All I ask is,
Don’t be mad when,
I separate myself as a Human tired of my own kind’s ignorance…