Mexican, one quarter.
American, the rest.
Not sure exactly if there are any pieces I’m missing
’cause no one really gave me the percentage of my race.

Know very little to even describe.
Just know Mama was working so hard at a point they called it child labor.
And to think no one gave her a reason to smile
to sweeten those long tired Christmas days.

Fake catholic.
Don’t go to Him enough to thank Him for giving me something to work with.

In control. Could have lost it
when I was 10.
Seems like everyone is eager to get rid of it,
so why aren’t I?

Body type?
Have curves here and there.
It’s enough for me
to look at myself
and be satisfied,
even for a minute.

A sort of caramel looking skin tone.
Too dark to be pale. Too pale to be dark.

Two big, full red colored cheeks.
A smile that goes all the way across one side to the next.
A smile just like mi tio.
My eyes just like mi tio.
Everyone says, “You look too much like him for him to just be your uncle.”

Need to show these men
we weren’t made for their entertainment.
Why do we work hard to maintain that hour-glass figure?
I think it’s because we’re females.

Place of Birth?
My misunderstood home,
where hip-hop and dance beats were born. But sadly recognized
for being an untamed lion.

America. The place I know best.
I know where to go to get the lowest prices on soda. Where them drug dealers
are making their profits.
Where all the moms and dads disappear
to release their stress—
that building they always say never to pass by,
that corner bar they say is only for adult’s play.

Plan old middle.
Not enough money to spend freely. Mom, aunt, and sis always working
just to make it through the month
trying not to worry about many bills we won’t be able to pay.

Pretty large on my mother’s side. But my father’s?
I can’t say.
I was never told about that side
because to them, I don’t exist.
But if only they could see me now.
Then we’d see
who’s at loss here.
Then, we’d see
who’s at loss here.

Lydia Villa
Age 16, Grade 11
DreamYard Project
Gold Key

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