Latina Girls Deserve More

Jesus Christ.
I’m going to rant for a hot second.
We’re either considered too black, too Latina, or too white.
If you’re mixed, you’ll never be considered a part of either culture.
Lighter skinned babies are idolized, but when they grow up, they’re no longer Hispanic enough.
Afro Latinas are too dark for many to consider Hispanic but not often considered a part of the black community.
LBTP+ Latinas are rarely recognized in LGBT+ groups and organizations.
Even light skinned Latinas are ignored by white feminists.
The “chola” style is ridiculed and considered “ghetto”, but fashionable on white girls.
Thick eyebrows on Latina girls are made fun of but on whites it’s yet another fashion statement.
The most famous and incredibly talented Latina artist is only noted for her eyebrows and not her art or story.
Speaking with a heavy accent is ridiculed.
Not speaking Spanish is ridiculed.
Deportation jokes, especially towards Mexicans, are considered ok by society.
Indigenous descent isn’t considered “native” to white standards.

I have so much more I am so angry.

@ LatinO Men

If you still live with your parents, y'all better be doing your part around the house. Help out by washing the dishes, sweeping, mopping, cleaning your room, and washing your own clothes. Don’t expect to have your food served like your dad and tíos are used to. I know many LatinOs who support their families financially and think that excludes them from actually helping around the house. Our moms don’t get paid to do housework, clean after your messes, cook your meals, and wash your dirty ass clothes. Get your asses up, pinches huevones!

Always keep immigrants in your thoughts and prayers. Those who are considering crossing the border(s), those who have started their journey, and those who have made it to the other side. May their journey be a safe one. May they face no more violence. May they have food and water to get them through the long days and nights. And may they be able to find what/who they’re looking for when they arrive to the other side of the border.

Why I need Chicana feminism

Because I was taught to stay away from certain styles because they were too “mexican”. With phrases like “the bigger the hoop, the bigger the hole” when I loved wearing big earrings. Being told that red hair against my brown skin looked “ghetto” instead of fierce and bold. Wearing stylish flannels like the pretty pastel haired girls on tumblr and being told I look like a “chola”. Working hard to get rid of my slang because society taught me that it was “unflattering”. That bright red lips were too much. That my natural intense brows are now a makeup “fad”. When in reality all this shit was made up by people that want to put us down for claiming our own identity. 

You Bring Out the Mexican in Me

by Sandra Cisneros

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I’d let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For You.

You bring out the Dolores del Rio in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Caine and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora’s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City ’85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl Ixtaccíhuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.

Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The !alarma¡ murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in your light. Oh,

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñón. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrhh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.