Author: Knight of Day PM
Ethnically confused pure blood...no other way to put it really. How do you fit into the world when u can't eve fit into ur own enthnicity?Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 391 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 05-16-04 - id: 1611174
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What am I really?
A pure blooded half breed?
Melding of Indian and Spaniard,
Of slave and conqueror?
Forged into a nation, a people
Dozens of generations of half breeds
Melting, merging into a people
Only to be thrown into another world
The pureblooded halflings,
Struggling, laboring, bleeding and being beaten
Rejected, insulted, crushed and abused
And so they became strong,
Making the best for their young,
Each generation reaching higher,
Standing on the shoulders of the beaten ancestors
But each generation growing farther from those ancestors
What am I?
I am a melding of all these things.
I am half beaten ancestor
From my father, el guero, I am the First generation,
Sangre pura, with proud roots still deep in the ancient
I am half reach-er, constructer
My mother, la morena, Fifth generation, gives me her shoulders to stand on
To reach higher in the Sixth generation
To carry on as last of the Caballeros, the only one of my generation
But what of this world?
Where do I fit?
The blood, la sangre, is pure through all,
But the spirit is split
First and Sixth
Beginning and Far
And they tell me I belong neither
Nor to the white world
My eyes, my hair, my name…
I don't belong there
But not to the world of my parents.
My speech, my skin, my peers…
They say I'm not welcome there either
The world of my parents, my ancestors, my blood…
And I am rejectedLa sangre me canta, me llama Pero la gente no me admite
Where do I belong?
Who am I? Ripped, torn, fragmented child.
I scream to myself at night…Why? Why can't you fit?
I want so badly answer the call of my blood, la llamada de la sangre
But my tongue freezes, slow and heavy, when I must speak
And I know I can, I know I'm able, but I just…freeze.
So I stumble over my heavy tongue
And they laugh at the poor ignorant child
And I am left fragmented,
Bearing the look of distain that flashes across people's faces
When they hear my pronounce my last name correctly
Bearing the taunts, the humiliation,
Of being called "white washed"
I am left confused, lost, and unsure,
Who am I really?