Irony

[title type="subtitle-h6"]Alexis Rivera[/title][vc_row][vc_column width="11/12"][vc_column_text]I am six years oldSitting cross-legged on a rainbow carpet, face poutingThere will be no show-and-tell todayMy peers and I have our eyes on our guestThe navy blue costume compliments a shiny gold badgeStranger danger He tells us not to trust dark, hooded figuresHe tells us policemen are our heroesHe tells us they will keep us safeAnd I believe him[spacer height="30"]I am ten years oldFiddling with toys at my desk and inattentiveThe teacher’s lesson is on the meaning of xWeeks ahead of the other math programsI sit in a Talent Development Program classI don’t realize the sea of white surrounding meMy eyes wander to a poster on the wallThe Golden RuleIt teaches us that we should treat others the way we want to be treatedIt teaches us that we are all equalAnd I believe it[spacer height="30"]I am twelve years oldHanging from the monkey barsThe boys chase the girls around the playgroundBut they do not chase meI try to remember my parents’ pride in our Puerto Rican cultureWhen the pale-skinned and knee-scraped boys taunt meThey say I’m dirtyThey say I should go back to my countryThey say I am poorAnd I believe them[spacer height="30"]But they are all wrong[spacer height="30"]I am seventeen years oldAdmiring Brent’s highlights under the fluorescent lights of the cafeteriaWe gossip about the cute new student in our classAs Brent shows off his fuzzy, leopard pantsI can sense them sneering from the table behind meTall, white, and clad in camouflage jacketsThey whisper he’s a faggotThey whisper condemnation of his sinful waysThey whisper same-sex marriage is a joke[spacer height="30"]This is not equality[spacer height="30"]I am eighteen years oldStrutting down State St. arm linked with hisAll stores we pass are vacant and display similar signsWe’re ClosedMy feet ache and my ears still ring with rhythmic baseBut I am satisfied with the nightSuddenly, five of them appearClones of one another, greek letters etched into their chestsThe drunken cat-calling beginsThey holler disapprovalThey holler profanityThey holler at my shame[spacer height="30"]This is not respect[spacer height="30"]I am nineteen years oldCooking arroz con gandulesMy white friends laughing as I dance to salsa around the kitchenI describe the injustices I learn about in Chican@ and Latin@ studiesThey are shaking their heads when I mention immigration lawsEyes roll and I can almost read their mindsThere’s too many of them, why don’t they speak English, they’re stealing our jobsSensing my discomfort, they try to ease the tensionThey claim I am not one of themThey claim I don’t speak SpanishThey claim I am “white-washed”[spacer height="30"]This is not my land[spacer height="30"]I am twenty years oldWatching CNN from the living room of my apartmentImages of black faces crowd the screenGlimpses of the lives of those whose hearts will never beat againAre these the hooded figures they warned me about?Hands up, don’t shootThe anchormen lay out all the factsStill, our protectors get away with murderThey state he deserved itThey state it is not a war on raceThey state we are overreacting[spacer height="30"]This is not justice[spacer height="40"]Today I am as old as I have ever beenWriting in anger, fear, and disbeliefI have been betrayed by those put in powerMentirososWe suffer daily from those sworn to give us strengthI was promised rights as a childWe demand our privileges nowI am not a tragedyWe don’t want sympathyYo soy BoricuaAnd we want change[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]