For my last piece, I would like to read a segmented essay.
This is an essay in fragments focused around a theme.
This piece explores notions of ethnicity, identity, skin tone,
and race.
This piece is called "White".
Number one.
Cream.
With a cup of strong coffee and five packets of creamer,
I can approximate the skin tone of the nine
members of my mother's family.
Two.
Milk.
I never see the shadow or the red carton flash,
and even when the pint of milk explodes against my friend's
head, I'm late to understand what the Chicano boy means
when he curses from the sidewalk at my junior high cafeteria,
shit.
Missed that honky.
Three.
Dough.
I watched my mother and grandmother cook
in the kitchen, rolling pin thumping, mixing flour, salt,
and baking soda as effortlessly as Spanish and English.
De veras?
my grandmother asks.
Oh, sí, my mother replies.
Every word.
I eat my tortillas hot and whole and plain,
nourishing myself on these ingredients
as if this really were my bread.
Four.
Lard.
My mother has her own philosophy about beans.
Instead of spooning in the traditional curl
of Snowcap pig's fat, she adds bay leaves, olive oil,
sea salt, and garlic.
She cooks her pintos all day all day
or a low gas flame, in the pyrex pot,
until the broth bubbles a rich murky brown.
When an aunt, or a neighbor visits for supper, they always
frown from their first tablespoon sip, "Good",
they say, "but different."
To which my mother replies, "Exactly."
Five.
Egg shell.
Ricky Sandoval pins me by the throat
against the C-building locker, the combination spinning
beside my head, and slaps me on one cheek, then the other,
until my composure cracks, my eyes water,
and my face burns red.
"See." he says, "That's all you need, a little color."
Six.
Scarred.
The razor is too dull to cut so I scratch
a fingernail on the back of my left hand,
hoping my big brother will see.
He yanks me off the front porch anyway
and and into the kitchen, where he and his fatherless friends
have found a better way to scar.
A curtain pin, heated orange on the gas range,
and press to the tender fold between the thumb
and the forefinger, into the shape of a cross.
Into the symbol of belonging he's
seen on Brown Chicano fists.
He holds my arm tight against the formica counter,
while I close my eyes, and still see the blue flame.
The vodka shot, cold water blast.
I stand beside him as our matching crucifixes
swell with blood.
Afterward, we raid vegetable gardens,
set pampas plumes alight, and bust phone booths
until glass drips from our denim jackets like rain.
I picked the scab to keep the scar alive,
but my cross fades first, swallowed by pale skin.
Seven.
Liquid paper.
"No, we are not Mexican."
My mother says.
"Chicano?"
I ask.
"No," she snickers.
"Spanish?"
"No,"
"Then what do I say on my report?"
"Don't say anything."
"What about Irish?
Like Dad."
"Your father wasn't Irish.
He was Scottish French."
"Wasn't your grandma Italian?
Isn't that where I got my red hair."
"Your hair is not red.
It's auburn.
And if you really want to know the truth,
my family is Basque."
"How do you spell it?"
Eight.
Lotion.
Shake well before using.
Blend evenly over freshly cleaned skin.
Apply sparingly around elbows, knees, and ankles.
Wash immediately after use.
Avoid contact with clothing until dry.
The sheer bronzer is a temporary color.
Your sunless tan will develop in two to four hours,
and will last for days.
Reapply as needed.
Nine.
Ghost.
After college, I attend a National Association
of Hispanic Journalists convention in Dallas.
I linger among the beige cubicles
where reporters and editors brushed paths me with resumes
and business cards.
When I approach, the study my face, squinted my name tag,
and then turn away.
Several hours into the job fair, with fewer interviews
and even fewer prospects, I duck into a men's room,
flip over my badge, and scribble in my mother's maiden name,
Candelaria.
Back in the main arena, recruiters smile,
hands extend, appointments open.
I walk through walls.
Ten.
Bone.
So, what do you need to know?
asked the man in camouflage fatigues.
The man with the Emiliano Zapata mustache.
The man who dug his friend into a bunker in Tierra Amarilla.
What do I need to know about a 71-year-old farmer who
refuses to leave land stolen by developers?
What do I need to know that an automatic rifle can't tell me?
What do I need to know that will help an Anglo
reporter like me understand?
"But, I'm not Anglo," I say.
"Oh, no?" he asks.
"What are you then?"
I start to tell him, but the words stick in my throat.
11.
Light bulb.
"A Chicano," explains the sculptor, the activist,
the co-founder of the Multicultural Arts Council,
"is someone who was born in the US,
but has a blood mixture of Aztec and Spanish.
A Chicano is someone with one foot in one culture
and one foot in another culture, who
resists being forced to choose.
A Chicano is a person trying to define themselves
for themselves.
A Chicano is a person seeking their true identity."
"I guess that makes me a Chicano,"
I say, touching my pale cheek.
"Me too," she says laughing, "and I was born in Mexico."
12.
Cotton.
I dry off my five-year-old daughter after swim lessons.
Goose bumps break across her thighs.
At the edge of her one-piece, I notice
a darkening of skin tone.
"Wow, look at this."
I say, "you're getting some color."
"No, Dad," she says, hiding her leg behind the towel.
"I don't want a tan."
13.
Blank.
US census form.
Year 2000.
Please answer all questions.
Are you Spanish, Hispanic, Latino, none of the above?
What is your race?
Black, African-American, American Indian,
Alaskan Native, Pacific Islander, Asian, White,
some other race.
Please print here.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]