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
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
you, cabrón, have the nerve to tell my beautiful, whip-smart,
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
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
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
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 become a civil rights lawyer.