I woke up, my lower body began quivering in pain,

I whimpered; my feet choked by the coldness of the glass pains.

I am in a cage of isolation,

I see no one else with my own complexion.

I am only six.

I turn around and see brown shades surrounding me,

my eyes gleam delicately.

I feel the stinging of the bleach,

here start my problems of insecurity.

I am only seven.

Click Clack Crack

Click Clack Crack

Pzzzt

I refuse to see the pictures on the TV,

they do not mirror me.

My heart aches,

my skin itches.

God, please let there be someone like me.

Tan skin.

Honey voice.

Auburn coat.

Sun-drenched eyes.

Daring smile.

I long for someone that mirrors me.

I am only eight.

I want the sun to shine no more,

because my melanin is nothing but gore.

Blue eyed and blonde,

what a perfect fantasy.

I chose to erase my identity.

My face flushed.

The floors creaked.

The doors slammed.

The wheels turned.

My feet stopped,

it is coming from within me.

I am now nine.

I am too dark,

too exotic,

too different.

I run and play and hide.

They walk and hinder and seek.

I survive the gringo wilderness,

with two sides inside of me.

The sun and moon.

The light and dark.

The good and bad.

The beautiful and the ugly.

My daydreams and nightmares are now

not one.

I am ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Riiing

I pick up my phone to a world full of possibilities.

Terror unfolds as nuclear words bomb my screen.

I ignite fear among the majority.

I am loud.

I am irresponsible.

I am uneducated.

I am a thief.

I am unworthy.

The floors creak, the doors slam, and the wheels turn,

but no one is by my side aiding my hurt.

They share.

They comment.

They follow.

They like.

But I remain in the same place,

there is no tomorrow.

Equity or equality,

which one will it be?

I have no voice,

I am mute.

I cannot choose my own destiny.

Instagram.

Facebook.

Snapchat.

New York Times.

Fox News.

The purity of my people is stripped from our tongue,

all because of the words that they shout.

I grasp for social stability,

but I am pushed back by white agility.

I seek opportunities in a globe colonized by racial inequality.

When is it my turn?

When is it OUR turn?

I am fifteen.

The floors creak, the doors slam, and the wheels turn,

but now I am not alone.

Opportunities disposed themselves onto my petite hands.

The bittersweet logic,

the never-ending history of my people.

I have found my community,

they have found me,

in a small screen I call MiniME.

I prepared for battle alongside the sun and moon.

Their gleam and glow rained tranquility into my very soul.

I am now sixteen.

I am Chicana and I am proud.

My bloodline fuels my curiosity,

their passion for war is in me.

My people made a path,

and I help build the way.

I am Chicana and I am proud.

Leona Vicario is in me.

I fought for the independence of Mexico from Spain.

I dispatched necessities among towns,

caring for those harmed by the conflict.

I wrote about political and social movements,

unifying an identity.

I am among the first Mexican women to become a journalist,

telling the story of my people.

I am Chicana and I am proud.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz is in me.

I am a renowned feminist author.

I dared to break society’s gender roles.

I was shamed for refusing to marry.

I was shamed for gaining an education.

I was shamed for being free.

I am on the 200-peso bill,

symbolizing feminist’s battle for equality.

I am Chicana and I am proud.

Dolores del Río is in me.

I am the first Mexican actress appearing in Hollywood’s silent era.

I was a diva, a cultural phenomenon.

I became a leading actress in Mexico’s film industry.

I represented young women aspiring to be on the big screen.

I am an example that dreams come true.

I am Chicana and I am proud.

Selena Quintanilla is in me.

I am a Chicana musical icon,

the Queen of Tejano.

I am the first Tejano artist to win a Grammy.

I embarked courage through the music industry’s discrimination,

facing off my own battles of insecurities.

I am loyal to my Mexican and American roots,

cheering for those who know the struggle of my identity.

I left an everlasting legacy behind me,

for artists and Chicanx.

I am Chicana and I am proud.

Sandra Cisneros is in me.

I am the most famous Chicana author.

I aid aspiring writers in the rocky road called life.

I bring awareness of Chicana struggles into mainstream literary discussions.

My books warm the heart of Hispanic girls yearning for a voice,

yearning for someone to mirror them.

I love the color of your skin,

the texture of your hair,

the passion in your eyes.

I advocate for Chicana voices.

I am Mexican and American.

I am capable, powerful, and influential.

I am the fuse of a daydream and a nightmare.

I am the fuse of the light and the dark.

I am the fuse of the good and the bad.

I am a mixture of my identities.

I am unique.

I am a representation of cultural survival among my community.

I pass on my ancestor’s stories.

I ignite change for social justice.

I am proud to be Chicana.

I am now seventeen,

free in my skin,

free from the glass case.