They Call Me Blanca
1 Courting In→ First step→ Completo √
They call me Blanca. That’s all. That means …well… white. They could call me, güera. That’s the slang for white girl. I’m glad they don’t, that’s worse. Most of them probably don’t even know my real name. I can’t stand my real name anyways, so…está todo bien.
I’m sixteen and I live in Stockton, California. Everyone I know is Black, Mexican, or Asian. Me? Well, my mom is white and my pops was Mexican, so…what does that make me… no se. Where I come from? I’m the minority. And that’s a dangerous place for a person to even try existing in here. Last night I completed step one of my courting in. That’s initiation para you gringos.
It is six a.m., on a Friday morning, after a rough night with no real sleep. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom of our dinky apartment so that I can get ready for school. Mom’ll be rapping on the door soon saying, hurry up, and that she, needs to get ready for work.
I don’t care. I should. Pero no.
Placing my palms flat on the cool, rusty edges, of the bathroom sink, I lean forward and examine the stranger that stands before me in the dirty mirror.
Who are you? You look like a chola.
She stares back at me.
Why do you wear so much makeup?
The charcoal lined eyes just blink back at me.
I lean closer so I can stare into the swirling depths of those strange, sea green eyes, shot through with flecks of blue.
DelaCruz.
Michelina DelaCruz.
A DelaCruz should not have these white-girl eyes. They should be a delicious, chocolate brown like my girl Shortie has. Or, they should be a buttery, golden brown color like my other homegirl, Cookie.
A DelaCruz shouldn’t have reddish brown hair either. Unless she’s dyed it that way on purpose.
I gingerly touch the purple and blue bruise on the right side of my face. It’s real swollen, but it now only looks worse than it feels. My ribs on my left side? My swollen right ankle? My huge split lip? Well, now that is a different story.
Posted: 04/01/2012 02:13:22
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