Laughs

Do you ever get excited when you find something that hurts?

Depicted by things like laughter at a funeral or an awkward smile during a fight.

I migrated to the USA when I was 10 years old. I would like to say I took it well, because it is now probably one of the best things that has happened to me. But I didn’t, not even close lol. At least not at first.

The only family I had ever known up to that point of my life resided in that country with me. I had created a sense of who I was by living a live with them. I felt an out of this world love for each and every one of them. And I relished in each and every moment we had spent together.

I felt safe in their presence.

So when my dad shared his game plan of moving to the USA, I… flipped… out!

 I yelled as loud as I could and uttered who knows what and locked myself in the downstairs bathroom.

I felt betrayed.

None-the-less, none of this was up to me, so we plowed ahead with my dad’s plan.

The next memory that sticks out for me, was the whole family gathering at my grandma’s house to say goodbye.

This was it.

In a few hours we would be boarding the plane to exist in a seemingly different realm of reality. We piled into the car. Something I remember always being a tight squeeze, as back then a seat belt did not depict how many people were supposed to fit in that long bucket seat of the Malibu.

Fair Skinned

I don’t know what it is like to fear for my life when in public.

 

I don’t know what it is like to fear the cops pinning me down until I drew my last breath.

 

I don’t know what it is like to be afraid to go for a run and never come back home to my children.

 

I don’t know what it is like to fear being shot by those who took an oath to protect and serve, when being stopped for a traffic violation.

 

I don’t know what it is like to be full-on discriminated against.

 

As a fair skinned Latina, people always assume I am American.

 

Even growing up in Venezuela, as a little blonde, light eyed 7 year old child with light freckled rosy cheeks, the other kids would get close to my shy face, softly pet or pinch my cheek and merrily call me “gringa”.

 

As if it was the sweetest, most suiting compliment they could ever give another human being.

 

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