una raza antigua.

Quite the contrary, the story has different origins, and avenues - the guise of latinidad would have us convinced that our origin stories are one in the same - but the idea of submitting to and investing in a vague cultural hegemony that serves no political purpose and is culturally counter productive because we (in a single breath) erase the narratives of the victims of the first trauma of the Americas. 

First; the creation of the mestizo, frankly, an ethnic class that is the product of rape, the subsequent crime - the original sin; In a biblical scope, god created Lilith before Eve from the same primordial essences as Adam, thus making her his biochemical equal. However, Adam refused to respect Lilith as his physical and spiritual equal, and after fighting off his advances was banished from the so-called “paradise.” The original sin was rape, and naturally, in our patriarchal world, the woman was the demonized character. Following the first (a forcible invasion of home and property) - the bored, wealthy, european nobleman or proprietors in a unique and painfully slow act of genocide began with the trade of gold, furs, and disease, preceded the initial direct violences of destroying the entire male Taino class, and then laying foot to the women. 

“Sanitizing” them in spirit, body, and politically, their identities hidden in the archives and slowly written out of history as evident by the demographic information that was so painstakingly created by the European - a caste of people perpetually obsessed with documentation as they are with the imaginary concept of categorizable “race”. In a most self-destructive breath, we celebrate our mestizaje, or rather, the mestizo or (let’s consider) the pardizaje (à lá the tres razas critique) is branded, marketed, packaged, and advertised, sold, put on stage, paid to dance, and later discarded, erroneously misconstrued by the criollo elite in tandem with the global media, later to be conflated by the populace as nationalist/cultural representation, despite the nature of mestizo/pardo history. Do we consider these variables in the equations that manifest when we “honor” our mestizaje, or does that bloodshed justify the self-deprecating exoticism? 

Are we truly venerating these spirits, or are we merely objectifying what we perceive to be identifiers of “beauty” as seen through, and defined by, the eyes of the likes of men who, through the most invasive and creative of fashions, pulled from their immoral imaginations, these same definitions and meanings and standards, that we (unwittingly/ignorantly/unknowingly) use today to celebrate in this self-deprecating, ass-backward ass manner; and it’s all worth it at the end of the day, because - by the laws of spicy white supremacist (or, “Latin American” culture[al]) logic it keeps one “just a peg” above negritude. 


Secondly, it virtually sanitizes the centuries long violences of forcibly dragging the African man, woman, and child - because the African was not invited into perpetual servitude - and all that followed suit and was birthed from the human trafficking ring known as “the transAtlantic slave trade”, including the condemnation of Black People, globally, to an almost infinite existence as “sub-human”; again, all things are seen through the white supremacist rose colored lens. What my existence - has always been - is exile; I just didn’t know that I was a victim of exile - literally, a perpetual, physical, spiritual, emotional, and psychological, multi-dimensional displacement and dissociation - and that many generations before me have been political prisoners. Held hostage by the invisible and palpable chains of white supremacy.  Our original spirituality condemned, languages bastardized and fallen victim to the tongue, sword and unwelcome body and spirit of men who lay siege to every single form of life beyond and within their (naturally, of course, violently, self-proclaimed, god-given, self-imposed) sociopolitical jurisdiction.

The spoils of the war that lie in the wake of their perverse, intrusive, and morbid curiosity and insecurity gone wild,  written with the pathetic excuse of being gifted “divine grace and permission to explore lands anew”, validating their sadistic exploitation, and savage intrusion, of the sanctity of human life that existed in a multitude of modalities outside of the (obviously limited) comprehension, respect, and appreciation of the european “intellect”. While it’s said “to complain is to validate victimhood” I refuse to accept that vapid patronization of my opinions, or those of the undead, by voicing a centuries, generations, lifespan’s old, spiritually taxed and emotionally fatigued grievances as a mere “complaint”, if anything but, should it be.

My existence, be the enfleshed, concise critique of the world; that my skin color, texture, face shape, hair color, hair texture, physique, was in antiquity not created by any legitimate courtships or anything remotely related to consensual interactions. My black ass breath and the fact that I dance on-1, the sway in my hips, the way I finesse a machete, and throw down in the kitchen like the many generations of women before me, how my softness becomes stone when my hands strike the tightened skin on a conga and let out nasty truku-bum ta-takums, cada toca cerrada, a spit in the face at the machine of white supremacy a threat to the very toilet paper thin fabric that is the world order, that my heart still beat akin to the dun-dun, that my every step is the wretched rhythmic onomatopoeia that beats only to haunt  you with the syncopated nightmare that your ancestors cursed you with embedded deep in the white psyche and genetic coding; that your perverted physical schizophrenic bodily motions your kind dare to call “dancing” is in fact your being under the spell of spiritual exorcism, that your body jerking violently off-beat is not your inability to catch rhythm, it is your spirit rebuking divine black essence; some irrational fear yet plausible idea that the African and Native sons and daughters will come to vindicate, and claim their inheritance in the same manner that only your kind seem to understand and a language that was spoken almost exclusively by their ancestors through smoke and gun; that you’re met not only with the fire, and the steel, and blade of the bayonet, spoke, and the wheel of the biblical chariot that come to taste a sweet nectar of revenge, it is not the bloodshed, or violence you fear, white person, but it is that you’ll be on the receiving end of the same disregard, disrespect (and overall recklessness) for human life that your ancestors have served to humanity since time immemorial, and in the most audacious and cavalier of attitudes today would dare to act surprised and play the role of victim should a small country rise up and call the bastard child for what they are; an illegitimacy. 


What does this subscription for this elusive and conditional club whose membership is perpetually dependent on the capacity for us, as individuals, and a collective to spiritually undermine and rebuke the identities, histories,  narratives of our ancestors who are non-white, and ignore the traumas they suffered at the hands of our ancestors who ARE European - negating the black and brown stories and replacing that with an  ignorant celebration and perverse honor system used to justify the “successes” of the white stories - serve us? How does it function to benefit us in the sociological, spiritual, communal, financial and existential? At what cost? 

My skin color is anything but the damned evidence, smoking gun -- in flagrante delicto, en camino, of the violence that had, has, and is accepted as socially tolerable and given the sour name, Hispanic, at the end of all of that mess. We the mastless ship lost in a storm - the ocean is the same color as the sky - left to combat waves and navigate the blackened sea that is the contradictory, psychologically abhorrent, socially and spiritually repugnant dichotomy of allure and lambast; censorship and objectification; our bodies commodified, sexualized, while still condemned for their existing as their truest selves.