This essay was originally published in 2021/2022 edition of Voices, Midwestern State University Texas Arts & literature journal, where it one 1st Place President’s Award for Prose.
2021 (42 years old)
My cursor blinks over the get started button and my shoulders climb towards my ears in a flash of anxiety while I contemplate yet another form to fill. I scroll back to the top, check my browser tabs, searching for an idea of how I’m supposed to be counted; under what category should I register my existence? And I do know I exist. The pain in my lower back reminds me of that, but even at this age I don’t know how to be counted.
I’m Puerto Rican and Puerto Ricans don’t neatly fit into the race boxes on the numerous forms I have to fill out. And ever since COVID hit, there are a lot of forms to fill out and all those forms feel grave, like counting correctly is life or death. City, County, State, Country, Walgreens—they all ask me to identify myself so that I can be counted. I’m asked to check a box to claim White, Black, Native American, Asian or Pacific Islander, None of the Above, All of the Above (well, mixed or multiple), or I’d rather not say. I’d really rather not, but then I’m not counted, and being counted matters.
I stare off at the overcast sky and breathe in the damp, cool Chicago air blowing into my window from off the lake. The gray looms high and I think about the boxes I’ve been told to check and the people who’ve told me what I’m allowed to claim. I think about the cloud above stretching in all directions, boundless.
1990 (12 years old)
I pick at the edges of green cloth tape they use to patch pencil tears in the seat-backs of old school buses. I contemplate green up close, my head pressed up against the seat. The air on the bus is sticky and hot and ripe with adolescent funk, but I have a yellow hoodie pulled tight around my head to conceal my face, hoping they won’t notice me. I always sit in the third or fourth seat, any further back and the Cubans will eat me for an after-school snack.
The kids on my bus talk in loud voices, mixing Spanish and English with accents changing to match the words. I poke my head up when I hear Jorge Diaz drop his Spanish accent and call out to Brie Hanson sitting in the seat across from mine. She laughs and spits a reply back to Jorge in a tone that only Latinas learn from their mothers. Jorge sees me and asks what I’m looking at, firing a rubber band from his index finger and thumb directly at my eye.
My Spanish sucks and it has made me a target. I live in Florida and the Cuban kids, and Mexican kids, the other Puerto Ricans, and Flora—the Guatemalan girl on my bus—all hate me. Florida is new to me and I miss my old life back Naperville where the bullying wasn’t this relentless. “Gringo, pato, punk-ass”— my white-boy mannerisms are unwelcomed in the swampy Florida climate.
2015 (37 years old)
“Really? I don’t think you’re who they’re talking about when they say Latino,” Debbie says to me in a big puff of cigarette smoke. “I think about the people in the communities I work in and I don’t think of you that way. You grew up in Naperville.” She says and laughs a phlegmy laugh. Her round white face is squinty in the sun. The exhaled smoke blows back against her face.
I light a cigarette for myself and use the long first drag to process her assertion. “I’m not Latino because Latinos don’t grow up in Naperville.”
“That’s bullshit, Debbie,” Toby says, there are small droplets of sweat forming on his black skin, “have you ever been called a spic? Have you ever been profiled, or accused, or been passed up because you’re brown?” Toby’s eyes are wide and he’s cocking his jaw forward.
“Yes, I have.” I hesitate. “But I have degrees, I’m educated, I feel like I’m cheating…” Blood is rushing into my face as I hear the words coming out of my mouth.
“So, to identify yourself as Latino you have to be disadvantaged, uneducated or some sort of cholo, vato? Is that what you’re saying? That’s some shit.”
1985 (7 years old)
I make a sticky, melted popsicle handprint on the rear window of my father’s Trans Am. When he pulls the seat up to let me out, the smell of cut grass and charcoal and sizzling pork leads us to a picnic where my aunts, sitting under a party tent, greet me with a loud “prieto.” The sun blinds off our number twenty-one Pittsburg Pirates jerseys. Roberto Clemente is my dad’s hero, a Puerto Rican ball player and why my father was a lifelong Pirates fan.
My skin darkens in the July sun and I start to learn that not all the leaves on my family tree are the same shade of green. I’m browner than most of my cousins in skin but whiter to them in all the other ways. For my cousins, who are all from the island or whose parents were born there, it doesn’t matter that I’m darker. But I don’t know their games, I didn’t know their jokes, and that means I’m other.
To them, I’m an intrusion. I’m those white kids on the playground making fun of their accents. I’m more jet than shark.
1986 (8 years old)
I let the tears streak my face and let the snot pool under my cold nose, but I trap the actual sobs in my chest. The red ball rolls off the foursquare court over decaying brown and orange leaves after hitting me in the face, hard. I stand wide-eyed in the misty, cool, October air, mouth slack from the direct hit, but it’s the venom in the word spic and the way Billy, my best friend, said it to me that brings the tears. All eight-year-olds squabble on the playground, but this feels different.
I don’t understand words like spic or beaner and what they actually mean. But I don’t need to know the Webster’s definition to know that it is intended to hurt me. Billy’s face after, I can see that the word has left a foul taste in his mouth, like taking a sip from your father’s beer because adults do it but recoiling from its bitter foamy taste.
Billy and I are back to normal within the hour, but I understand something in my heart that I could never understand to say. Later, when I’m in the car with my mother, a pebble hits the windshield and leaves a small pock on the glass. After months of thaws and freezes, a crack starts to branch out from where that pebble struck until it becomes dangerous and needs to be replaced.
1992 (14 years old)
Bernard, my mother’s new friend, opens another bottle of wine and pours a glass for my mother. He hands me a glass full of ice and a can of Dr. Pepper. My mother’s voice is getting a little higher with her second glass of wine.
“I get Italian a lot, but we’re actually Puerto Rican,” my mother sloshes her glass a little bit as she talks with her hands. The motion seems exaggerated, like she’s almost trying to be more Italian. Bernard’s boat matches her gestures and the pink white zin see-saws in the open bottle. The wind is blowing and there’s warm rain pelting the vinyl awning.
“How about you Ry-Guy?” Bernard says.
“Uh, I always just tell people I’m Puerto Rican,” I say. I have adopted the nonchalance and apathetic demeanor of many Gen-X teens.
“Oh don’t do that,” Bernard says. “Puerto Rican isn’t really a thing. It has some bad connotations here. You should say that you’re European. You know, Spanish and French and Portuguese. You’re not lying, just going back a bit. For me, I’m German and English even though my family is from New Hampshire.”
I nod and take a long gulp letting the Dr. Pepper tickle my throat.
2020 (41 years old)
The wine buzz settles into my warm cheeks. I angle my iPad so the folks on my zoom book club happy hour cam see yet another BLM protest march through Uptown on Broadway Street. It hasn’t been too hot, so the protests draw throngs of masked crowds. We’ve read Washington Black and The Underground Railroad because somehow when you feel unable to help, you do things, anything, to hunt for insight and feel less helpless.
It is sunny and we’re each outside on our own balconies with our devices, on the screen I see a mosaic of white male faces with my olive little thumbnail image in the bottom right corner. I tell them how I wear a lot of sunscreen so that I don’t get too dark.
“I can feel people treat me different the darker my skin gets,” I tell them.
“I don’t—that seems kind of offensive. Like, you’re not black.”
“I’m not saying that I’m black or that I know what it feels like 100%, but I can tell you that when I get really dark, I’m more afraid to go for a run. I’m a little more afraid something will happen to me,” I say.
“I don’t know…”
“I’m not white— you realize that right?” I’m frustrated because people often tell me that they forget that I’m not white.
“I just never think of you that way.”
“That seems kind of offensive…” I say. “Shall we move onto The Underground Railroad?”
2000 (21 years old)
The rain feels sharp and stings on my face. I run into the theater building before dark clouds stop holding back and let loose their torrent. I check the cast list again. I’m passed up for the Main Stage production of Marat/Sade even though I’d make a perfect asylum inmate. I scan the list for the smaller productions and see that I have been cast in a show called Trouble in Mind. It is written by Alice Childress and I’m cast as John Nevins, a fiery young African American actor.
After weeks of rehearsal, I think I’m able to inhabit John’s skin. I stare at the more mahogany tone my face absorbs with every stroke of the makeup sponge. I’ve been told there aren’t enough black actors at my small liberal arts college to fill all the black parts but apparently with a little foundation I can pass. I love the play but my part in it makes me tired.
2019 (40 years old)
My Ancestry Ethnicity Estimate: Spain 24%, Indigenous Puerto Rico 19%, Portugal 15%, Scotland 7%, Ireland 6%, England & Northwestern Europe 5%, Mali 4%, Cameroon, Congo & Western Bantu Peoples 4%, Northern Africa 4%, Senegal 3%, European Jewish 3%, Nigeria 2%, Khoisan, Aka, & Mbuti Peoples 1%, Basque 1%, Indigenous Americas-Central 1%, Indigenous Americas-Mexico, 1%.
2021(42 years old)
I try to whittle down the options and debate if I should select white or mixed. I have almost always selected white, because I’m not black. I’m not black; I’m not indigenous; I’m not Asian; I also am not other. I’m exhausted by the prospect of only counting by subtraction. How is it I can only count by understanding what I’m not? I’m exhausted, so, I default and check white for race and Hispanic/Latinx for ethnicity, but it doesn’t feel right, and I wonder if I will count.
