E. Plancarte
Bio
Poet. Essayist. Thinker
Stories (4)
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White
There have been tiny moments in my life in which I have felt completely disoriented; when the world had transformed into this unrecognizable, uncategorizable roaming entity, hallow and stern, unmoved and still wavering. It happens that as I look into the faces of certain white people, I am overcome with this very feeling. I understand that I have met these people; people like these people before, many times, and in too many instances to even consider the afterthought of unfamiliarity associated with my senses. It happens, however, that I have no clue how these people are. I do not understand their culture. Their ways of speaking. The intricacies in their mannerisms, and I do not mean this in the way you can never really understand anybody at the depths to which your natural philosophical tendencies may sink you, I mean this in the way that in your attempt to understand these people, you will inevitably reach an end. A gap showcasing the other side of understanding that you may not have access to. I feel this when I talk to or work around white people. I wonder if this is because I have never had any real white friends. I have never even dated a white person. Maybe I have never allowed myself to become familiar with anybody who didn’t to a degree resemble me. Or perhaps the reason I never have was precisely because I had felt such isolation from them. For me, the disorientation seems inevitable. Even in their physical features, the white seems more delicate. More polished, as if god had taken the time to bestow upon them the colors of the clouds, and the skies. We, on the other hand, we Chicanos. We laborers. We wet backs and illegals and undocumented, and non-English speaking we, ironically, get the color of the earth, and its essential markings cast all around us in our beautiful pigmentation. I speak to the clouds, and I ask them questions. Inside, I feel inferior, and I can recognize it. I don’t know if that is common. I do not know if the rest of the undocumented migrants like me, share these sentiments. If they can look at white people and feel absolutely nothing. Or god, if they might feel equality. I remember an instance, in which I was working at a bar and a white man had sat down and was trying to start a conversation with me. I told my coworker, who looked much more ‘Mexican’ than me, that I felt intimidated. I remember him asking me, “Why? Cuz he’s white?” I said, “Nah no it’s not that.” I lied. It was completely because he was white, and had that air about him. That “I’m better than you air.” That, “I don’t need to know you to know what’s best for you” feel about him. He was pompous. He turned about to be a huge Trump supporter and a proud racist so I was right about him, but I often think back to the moment when my coworker asked why I felt intimidated. I almost wish I would not have lied, just to hear what he’d say. What advice he’d be able to give me, or what insight he could reveal, about the weakness of my character, and the internalized racism of my being. Most likely, he would have just told me that the white man was not any better than me. “He shits like you shit.” It’s true. However, I wonder how you get there. How you can look past all of their slights. How you can see past the fact that he was tall, handsome and the same skin color as a lot of the employers I’ve gotten rejected by. He probably ate the same meals that they ate, not the rice and beans and tortillas my mom would make me. He would have the same slang, that he learned from his father, which learned slang from his grandfather, both of which cultivated their way of speaking from the time spent evolving and growing up in this country. He would remind my employers of their fathers, perhaps their kids, perhaps themselves. They would feel a natural understanding of their similarities and be able to understand things about them and their words could never communicate. And that person never had to worry about a family member getting deported. He never had to worry about being laid off because they checked his ssn and turns out it was fake. He never had to think about who he was, reject parts of his culture, and accept others. He was never told the problems in his home emerging for financial reasons were because his people were not like the rest of the people. In many ways, he always knew he was the rest.
By E. Plancarte12 months ago in Writers
Change
It comes with utter dismay and disappointment that a man known to be so prejudiced against the existence and nature of the minorities in this country would win re-election partially because of the help of the Mexican-Americans spread across the country. More shocking is the fact that counties harboring large numbers of both legal and illegal Mexican migrants became red counties including my home county: Orange County. It sickens me to think that my own people don’t stand behind me. Of course, I am incredibly grateful for the ones that do. I understand how important it is to have allyship during these hard times, and I know how lucky I am to reside in California, a place to until now has been a safe haven and a relative place of luxury compared to the places in which people like me end up. I am not as afraid of what the future holds as I was when I was much younger, because I am seasoned illegal now.
By E. Plancarte12 months ago in Writers
Paint
The world spins on my palm. I faze in and out of it, and my thinking becomes too surreal for even myself to fathom. I am, and am not. I exist, then I don’t. At 24, I always wondered if I’d have my own place. No, I wishfully believed I would. Neglecting the reality of the economy and my legal status. I thought everything would fix itself. It’s hard to balance the thoughts of an infinite universe, with the limited implications of who you are at the moment in time in which you exist. It’s hard to be you, and still want to be someone else, someone better. I always wondered if I was wrong for living in such an elusive future for so long. I dreamt, as if my dreaming had merit. As if it were the merit. Dreaming is not the ticket to having the life you want, especially if the life you want doesn’t quite exist. Dreaming is a tool, and it can help you forge your plans, but it can never be enough. Disgracefully, for many people in my socio-political situation, dreaming is quite literally most of everything that I have. I use my dreams to build upon my already existing reality, and I see myself as much more special than I actually am. Sometimes I think that this is good for my self-esteem. Sometimes it feels like it’s to my detriment. I have not tried enough to fail enough to know myself enough, but I have failed to try enough, and that can tell some of the worst things about you. When you are dreaming you want to believe that you are capable of your wildest dreams. In a way you are, it’s just that the world doesn’t depend on you. When you are young, you dream like an architect. You get older, and start dreaming like a painter. I’ve reached 24, and I want to be a graffiti artist. Not the generic artists that tag their artist names on buildings that aren’t there in the same font I can find on my google docs. I mean I want to paint weirdly, on top of things, on the side. I want to add to the life I’m living. Small drops of color as I pass by. I might paint a flower. I might paint a mural. It all depends on the time I have. But what’s important is that I try to paint, as much, as often as possible. I want my life to mean something more. A smidge. A moment. Effort. In every moment of my life that I feel that I am drowning, may I not sink in one scene, May it take various. May I die moving. May I die like the wind. May the fickle drops of paint sit on top of me like moments of emotions waiting to burst. And may they burst.
By E. Plancarte12 months ago in Writers
I Am Undocumented
I am undocumented. This means that I am illegal. This means that I feel as if I’m going against all of what I have been trained to do since I was a clueless teenage boy in just writing like this. Should I lie about my name? Should I accept my eventual faith as a martyr in my attempt at being an advocate? But nonetheless, despite all of the rhetoric and political statements regarding the subject, it holds true that I am, in existing and presiding hare, operating above the law. I am not particularly proud of it. I was raised to hold a very high moral compass. I’ve never stolen, I reluctantly lie, I sometimes cheat on my math exams but that sounds like it is besides the point.
By E. Plancarte12 months ago in Writers
