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Dear White Boy Who Told My Little Sister “Not To Go All Latina”

Dear White Boy Who Told My Little Sister “Not To Go All Latina”

 

My sister is guapa as shit, alright?  She has these big expressive brown eyes that go down

  down deep like “mate mate chocolate” sung by an abuelita in a kitchen in the heart of

México

                 She has those voluptuous swinging hips that one might associate

     with a Latina – the ones you imagine 

salsa dancing on a sticky               summer night.

                      

          I’ll tell you one thing for sure:  she’s way out of your pinche league

And yet.       you, little white boy                          and your ego bigger than the amount of cocaína

               you probably think someone in our family smuggles over the border whenever they get

                                                                                                                          the chance

       you, cabrón, have the nerve to tell my beautiful, whip-smart,

                                                  will-have-you-bent-over-laughing-with-her-jokes   sister 

not to go all “Latina” on you??

                        ¿¿¿¿ What the fuck does that even mean???

 

                                                                                                Wait.  No, no me digas, lemme guess

She’s full of hot latin    fire, yeah?  the kind that’s hot enough

         to get you feeling good, but not so strong that you can’t stomp it out if it gets

                                 out of line

 The words “ay, papi” will roll off her tongue           when your clammy little white hand touches

           her golden mestiza skin

                                    Are you the conquistador come to colonize her hands her feet her

knees her waist her people                            Is she gonna be your own personal Malinche, translating between your native tongue of fuckboy and hers of human decency?

           

                       When she stomps her feet dancing flamenco, does it scare you, mijo?  do you imagine those Latina feet busting your balls?  Is that when she gets too Latina for you?

                                  Because no mames, you like a little bit of that latin blood,

que no?  you called

          her a “spicy quesadilla” in your adorable attempt at flirting.     She can have those hips, those eyes, that cute fiery attitude, but she can’t start getting

                                                                                           

                                                                                                           ideas

                                                          

                                                You know the ones I mean – those silly little revolucionaria dreams

Well,             let me go all Latina on you for a second and tell you that 

                                    my sister’s heart doesn’t go bidi bidi bom bom for you, gringuito

 

     You think my great grandfather drank mate every day in Buenos Aires and didn’t grow a skin

               as thick and fibrous as the roots of the yerba plant?        you think my sister doesn’t have that same skin?

 

            You don’t think her wet locks of dark hair are like the serpents

                                                                     Coatlicue wears around her waist as she creates and destroys, creates and     destroys?

                    That the sweetness of the pan dulce her other bisabuelo baked in his Juarez pandería

                      didn’t seep into her soul like the sugarwater drunk by the holy

Mexica hummingbird?

     Pendejo, when she dances her cheeks bloom with the Guadalupe roses

                                                                                      Juan Diego held in his brown hands

                      Our ancestors built a floating city, flourishing in the dry, oppressive desert

no one else wanted to live in

          Her veins are like the chinampas in Tenochtitlan – flowing with fertility and

                                                               possibility

When she laughs you can hear the sounds of the mariachi sneaking through, with their trumpets and their violins and their guitarrones 

                                                                              When she talks it’s like Spanish guitar on a

warm Granada night, her breath the sweet pomegranate breeze

 

 

                But sure, I guess that’s too much for your little cabeza to handle

                           I would wrap your head with lemons on your temples like my grandfather’s mother did with her curandera magic

                   maybe say sana sana colita de rana, but if it’s not going to sanar mañana for my little  

 

    Latina sister, it sure as hell shouldn’t for you

_______________________________

 

Sophia Nuanez is a sophomore at the University of New Mexico majoring in Chicano/a Studies with a focus on activism and social movements.  She plans to go to law school and beco​​​​me a civil rights lawyer.