Darlin Co

Mi Quisqueyana

Darlin Co
Mi Quisqueyana

Hispana, Latina, caribbean, red boned,

but not always

Assertive, uncertain, loud, and unable to stay shut.

Sexuality is worn on her face.

Her worth in the rhythm of her hips,

In the song she sings when she opens up.

In the boom from the congas, the harmony of the güira -she is there.

She feels fatigued, drained

from catcalls, from two seconds of fame.

Of fetishes disguising as love.

Of being told, since she was six years old, to place lust in her eyes.

We were trained to submit to the authority of some man,

He who comes along, placing his fingers on our lips.

Pretending our fire was fueled by self-sufficiency,

But in reality, it was more like when our men purchased a snug dress and forced it on us.

One that hugged the right spots.

We  came to this land, were told "that fire is much too bright, dangerous, and unwelcome"

Too americana for family,  being to “street” or "hood" in america

Spanish twisted, blessed with our nationalities’ accent.

Then shut down by our paisanos for being backed up in slang.

Never good enough, but whistled at more in one day than one could count.

We became fueled by these moments of “appreciation”

Saturdays booked with hair appointments, hoping each coil dies

Our exterior is worth more than our soul

Our words are meaningless, unless the conversations’ final vows include legs spreading

The latina woman is obviously hypersexualized.

Even the jokes about our loud vocal manner

Takes away from the fact that we still are not being heard.

Though we scream for justice, the idea is mocked.

Taught to push the next woman down, never lifting a sister up.

The cycle, the chains remain unbroken

And now this lifestyle is taught by our mothers, by our tias, by the women whose blood runs through our veins.

Taught to caress the European, and annihilate our blackness-

like when Cristobal wiped out our tainos. 

Tia's words, are sung in our country like an anthem


but that pure gene pool concept is dull, because our small strain of Africa and Native blood remains evident.

let our brown skinned woman rise, let her be appreciated. Her tan skin

kissed by the sun be praised.

Rise my Caribbean brother, and take our sister's hand

May she look at your hands rising her up,

And Not around her neck.

My sister, I hope you rise.

I hope you, my brother, will lead her.

So please show us where your true strength lies

show us how to love, when we've been hated for so long.