After the show she asks me,
"Carlos... Andreas Gomez ...is your stage name, right?
I mean, I've never met a Hispanic who looks like you –
So, what's your real name?"
To which I reply,
"Uhh...
Zach, actually. Zach Morris –
But I thought it would be a lot cooler to use a Spanish name.
It's a pretty smooth stage persona, though, isn't it?
And I'll let you in on a little secret:
I have much better luck with the ladies using it."
She doesn't laugh,
Maybe detects sarcasm,
Sucks her teeth
And leaves, offended.
I've got a question for you, Princess Anonymous –
What exactly does 'a Hispanic' look like?
Do I need to look like Juan Valdez,
And sell Folgers in a T.V. commercial,
Sift my fingers through Colombian coffee beans I picked myself, sitting on the back of my reliable mule, Conchita,
Next to a brokedown Chiva in an oversized sombrero,
– For me to "look" Latino?
Or look like "a Hispanic" as you say?
And what is "a Hispanic" exactly?
I could guess what you mean
And assume that it's a low-priced gardening tool
Like the one buried in a shed behind your Victorian summer home,
Or that invisible harvesting instrument that picks all of your grapes for you
And has to survive on slave wage plantations
Without unions, bathroom breaks, or vacation
Or maybe when you say "a Hispanic" you mean your stand-in parent?
That person who raises your kids for you when you're tired of being a mom?
That mouthless set of infinite hands and knees that scrubs the shit
From your toilets and throws away the used condoms when you
Forget to hide them?
And I don't have a backyard
Or a lover on the side, or kids for that matter,
So maybe I just haven't had the need yet,
But I haven't come across "a Hispanic" thus far in my life nor
Have I met "a black," "a Chinaman," or "a towel-headed A-rab"
Anytime recently either,
But I have met Latinos
Proud of the vibrant quilt
We've had to weave over centuries across an endless cemetery
That cradles our past, a swollen dust underneath our soles –
Wherever we stand – that we nickname home
Twisting roots at war, looking for
Nothing else but to be held –
You know "held"?
Like a family grasping onto each other
Because they've left behind everything
And only have each other left,
Arriving on Mars without
A guidebook or a map.
I have met Latinos
Who people think are Aboriginal in Patagonia, east Asian in Chile,
West African in La República Dominicana, Scandinavian in Argentina,
And Native American in Colombia.
I have met Latinos
Who look like Juan Valdez
And can't speak a word of Spanish, others
Who look like Hillary Duff with a mother who looks like
Hillary Clinton that are from Paraguay and teach
Spanish grammar in Puerto Rico.
Latinos
Who speak Quechua and nothing else,
Dance cumbia like the horizon is on fire because of them
And now they're trying to burn tomorrow to the ground.
I have met Latinos
Who cook like their broken English moms
And mispronounce their own last names,
Colombians who don't know who
Gabriel García Márquez is,
Dark-skinned Dominicans who hate Haitians
Because they remind them that they're African,
Blue-eyed Cubans who spit poetry about ¡Revolución!
And mean it – living with two parents in Miami
Who lost their mansions in the 1950s to it.
I don't tattoo my body
Because my veins are already too full with ink,
Passion-rich pigments that can't help but
Pulse and flow
Look at my heart, you short-sighted fool
I mean really look at it –
Cut open my chest and stare
At that proud glow
And then ask me if I
"Look" Latino.