“If you don’t like this country, go back to where you came from”
Words hurled like daggers from the lips of a teacher at my high school
who’d overheard me criticizing George Bush.
Words I’d never heard before moving to the Sunshine State
to a mostly white city known for white sand beaches,
fancy retirement homes, & Scientologists.
I learned I was too brown to complain out loud.
When my mom and I toured our future apartment complex
the blonde leasing agent steering the golf cart asked where we were from.
Massachusetts was not the answer she was looking for
so Ma told her we were Puerto Rican to stop her from asking for a third time,
with added emphasis, but where are you from?
Eyes glittering like she’d uncovered a hidden truth
she told us how she loved Puerto Ricans —
she knew some nice Puerto Rican families, they’d cooked for her.
Dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper to add, “not like those Blacks”
but don’t worry, she says assuredly; they’ll all be gone soon with the new management.
My mother stays silent
she who had always claimed African roots with pride
lets her perfect English, light skin and straight hair speak for her.
We needed the apartment; had to get out of the motel we were living in.
“What are you?” a pale-faced boy questions me in French class.
He later asks me if Puerto Rican is the same as Dominican
and how I got my green card.
We are juniors in high school and I’m in awe of his ignorance
despite it being mirrored in adults all around me.
My world religion teacher, with the ten commandments displayed on her door
likes me because I’m smart & I do my work.
I dislike her because she teaches about every other religion like it’s mythology
disrespecting traditions far older than Christianity.
I don’t tell her my people are witches.
One day in her class I mention I’m Latina.
Her face contorts in shock and it would’ve been funny except
for the way she says “I thought you were Italian” almost suspiciously.
For some reason I explain that part of my heritage is Spanish — that
my grandfather’s family came from Spain.
“I knew you were European!” she says victoriously
& I feel I’ve done something wrong.
I’m descended from the enslaved, the raped & exploited
I’m descended from the rebels who dreamt of a Puerto Rico libre
I don’t want to be descended from the conquerors and colonizers too.
“Go back to where you came from”
Angry words spewed by a teacher I don’t even know
as I sit in the hallway debating politics with a peer.
I want to tell her I was born in Massachusetts
& the island my family hails from was claimed by the US government
over a hundred years ago.
I want to tell her that I love my country enough to hold it to the highest standards
to expect better than white supremacy and neoliberal imperialism.
I want to tell her that American is not a color.
Instead I swallow and try not to cry
unspoken words lodged in my throat
threatening to choke me.
