“Why Do You Care So Much?” By Bella Cruz-O’ Grady
My whole life has been decorated with compliments Because my hair is red, wild, and unique And my eyes are the most dazzling shade of blue And my skin is so rosy and dappled with freckles That I have always been told are the kisses of angels
I have gotten used to people liking Isabella O’Grady More than they like Isabella Cruz And so I have been trained To count my blessings that my father’s genetics have been overpowered by my mother’s Muddled out with the pretty colors of an Irish girl But what are angel kisses to my full eyebrows? What is pale skin to the width of my hips? And what is clear articulation to the fullness of my lips? They don’t even hold a flame to these attributes that everyone seems to want to block out. Is it pity? Do you think you’re helping me thrive by ignoring the unideal half of me? I am more Puerto Rican than I will ever be Irish My father was actually born in Puerto Rico My mother was born in upstate New York So why are her genetics seen to be the pure ones? Why is she more valid than him? I’ve been to the island of Puerto Rico And I know the chances of me even considering a flight out to Ireland Are ridiculously slim But still when I told the woman checking my files at open house freshman year That my last name was “Cruz-O’Grady” 6
She scoffed and said “hunny, your last name is O’Grady, you’re in the wrong line” White people ask me why I care so much About the acknowledgement of racism and white privilege and all of the things That a good Arian girl would brush under the rug And embarrassment makes me blush and laugh out an “I don’t know, man” But Cruz screams from the depths of my diaphragm Demanding that I explain And that knight on that red and gold coat of arms shakes his head at me In disappointment for my cowardess And no I am not ashamed But rather I am defeated From the amount of “No, you’re not Puerto Rican” As though it was unfathomable that my pretty white skin Could be a jail cell for half brown blood O’Grady is embellished with a banner Reading “vulneratus non victus” Wounded not conquered And though I call that family crest mine It only belongs to my red hair And my blue eyes And my angel kisses And my pale skin The black haired, tan skinned, brown eyed Hispanic girl within me Has never felt the shielding embrace of wounded not conquered Instead she feels the stab of her friend’s parents talking about dirty Puerto Ricans as they don’t realize who they’re in the presence of Instead she feels the punch in the face of her father being told that this is America and he needs to learn to speak English right if he wants to live here Instead she feels the breaking of her ribs as she is tossed from box to box 7
