Guera, or: White Girl



A poem on identity.

I lay outside with the hopes that my pale skin will be colored in rich to fit my ancestry,
That the golden rays will ignite the match that rests in the boroughs of my belly
And fill me full with text from a History that I may call mine too.
Paint me smooth, with broad brush strokes layered on with intricate details.
Paint me with a palette that’s dripping with a
Soil of abundance.
I lay outside for the afternoon,
For the summer,
Until El Sol and La Luna
Greet one another in a moment’s soft shallow breath,
Until my skin color fades across the spectrum with a subtly that’s quiet enough to startle you.
Until my Mexican me is no longer noticed at first glance.
Until I am guera.
And I have to prove that despite not looking and not speaking that I am still a part,
Some part,
Any part of the greater whole.
That I want,
To be a part,
Some part,
Any part of the greater whole.
The whole that’s pieced together in a mosaic that
When held up to the light.
A kaleidoscope
Of me,
And you,
And we,
A kaleidoscope
Of us.
Lay outside for the warmth that hugs your heart,
For the creased line across the sun that starts just near the West
And dips low only to be welcomed by the peak at the East.
Lay outside to dance with Mother Earth barefoot
And free.
Lay outside not because you aren’t enough,
Lay outside because you’re more than enough,

More than guera.

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