The Heritage Which Belongs to Me

With incredulous expressions

they offer their first impressions,

"Truthfully your skin is too pale,

from your small mouth the language fails."

I look to my body and trace

all the flaws that are out of place.

My skin is too pale to belong.

My blue and green eyes are all wrong.

The only redemption, my hair.

Brown can't be mistaken for fair.

Caterpillars above my eyes,

strong arches above that which cries.

Can't they see there is more to me

than the first look? I am a sea:

filled with depth and secrets which swim

like fish. It's my surface they skim,

Judgments weighing heavily on

shoulders too small, not enough brawn.

I am a cultural outcast,

my weak, pale hands holding steadfast

to my own father's coattails.

Am I a meaningless detail?

Unworthy of my father's past?

Crippling doubt all because I asked

to clarify why I didn't fit.

Until I am hit with a bit

of wisdom which soothes my young soul:

it doesn't matter that as a whole

I lack the traditional signs

of my Cuban father's bloodline.

My skin is toasted, sun-kissed brown

and the sun heats away my frown.

In winter, I will once again

be "too" pale and garner disdain,

but the truth exists in my heart

and soul, that I am God's own art.

I am who I am meant to be,

and that even when their eyes see

a girl too white who can't speak right,

I glow and shine blindingly bright.

This truth is what makes me unique,

and I will show the other cheek

to those who hurt my self-esteem

because I can live my own dream.

I am a girl who can't speak, pale,

but I'm Cuban too and prevail.