Skittles
by C.F. Molina

This right here?
This is the counter-revolution.
Occupy nothing, fuck up what you can’t.
We’re all drowning in the melting pot and no one gives a shit
as they wear dashikis and sombreros and everything is
shangri-la-di-da

And
don’t cry over spilt milk
cry over spilt heritage
cry over my dead body
cut down by an uncaring system in which we were forced to mate until we all became gray and unintelligible
my balls broken and my spirit damned
struck down before you & me & gOD
hIS lips to yOUR ears

This shit right here?
This is for every kid who grew up knowing nothing of their culture
but fried foods and reggaeton and yankees fitteds
who need to shave their damn heads to feel connected to something bigger than themselves
For all the good that integration did for us
we’ve done fucked up with assimilation.

And
I tried to bare my soul in español but the shit just wouldn’t work
I drowned in 20 years of the “good” kind of white person, telling me to be me
but not in a threatening way
we don’t want to scare off someone who might feel bad
they’ve been chaining up a spic in the backyard of their thoughts but they didn’t mean it

But
I don’t hate white people
lord knows I love my dad
even though he just doesn’t get it, and neither do you
and a documentary you half-watched and quarter-took in about El Rey del Timbal isn’t going to cut it
you weren’t there, you missed the joke

This right here? This shit right here?
This is the cost of doing business
because freedom isn’t free
and Mad Men doesn’t speak
to kids who grew up on plantains and chicharrones
who dreamed of playing piano in a salsa band
who don’t know why they feel so sad when they see an american flag
and are too embarrassed about their Spanish to call their grandparents