Iced Green Milk Tea...I mean Green Tea? Iced. Please =)

Sit Down, and write.

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On weekends, I usually go over to this coffee shop (yes I keep talking about them lately, I seem to always be at one, outside of one. Literally, they've become my second home). It's hard to think of a place that can provide me the solace I seek. It's hunger. For what? I am not sure.

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I come in, and every time I'm flustered as I take out my wallet. Every time, it happens: searching my backpack for my wallet, leaving a book at home, losing material things all the time (the reason why I cannot own expensive things). Strands of hair are always inching to come closer to my eyes, ruining my vision, giving me a blurry view of the  person I hand over the one dollar fifty. Green tea, please, but sometimes, hot green tea latte - either, or. It never changes. I never bother. Their drinks leave something to be desired. I always feel like a smooch if I just casually walk in to steal their internet, but dammit, sometimes I wish I would. The tea is not even good.

Once I hand over the money, I plop my bag on the floor, my books on the table, and start my screen. I tap my foot incessantly, creating a beat that jars with the casual conversation of the place, with the awful Christmas songs they've put on lately. I usually stay there until I can no longer bear the cold - because of course we've become so attached to air conditioners, we cannot stand any temperature above 75 degrees. It's almost like we want to insulate ourselves from nature - the wind. It's ok folks, a little sweating won't do you harm. Besides, we are  meant to perspire, it lets the bad things go. I always wan to tell them, but they'd scoff at me. Instead, we waste precious energy, even wearing a sweater while at it.

The routine never drastically changes.

It was summer, and the air was stifling. I was flustered, but less so than usual. The lull of summer drew me inside, as I usually sat in the outdoor patio sitting outside. My damp skin didn't complain, remember it's ok to let bad things go?

"An iced green tea please with one pump of sweetener."

 My voice always projects out of my control. My voice can be extremely loud, and barely audible. My order came out as an feeble whisper. He seemed pensive, serious. He inched closer to the cash register. His thick eyebrows raised a few centimeters above their state.

"Iced green tea. On pump of sweetener, please."

He took my money, and I turned around intent on finding a table in the corner of the place. One thing I dislike is being in the entrance of places. All the while I was envisioning his expression, it kept replaying a bit. He seemed like a guys' guy - if that makes sense. You see, I've grown with a lot of men that were vastly different. I couldn't help it, but I stereotyped him. This guy probbably likes to drink beers with his bud, and sit around and talk about cars and girls, and girls, and other manly stuff. I mean, he had the muscles, and a tattoo. His smile was trembling a bit, as if it was a stranger that came to visit his face.

It's been numerous weeks, now, almost the whole quarter of me going in once in a while to study in that specific location - which is a bit out of my way. I like to see his smile. His smile is a bit flat, probably due to the fact that he works at Starbucks and his smile is worn out. His eyes curve a little when he smiles, and I can see genuine friendliness oozing out from the corners of his eyes. Maybe he feels sorry that I always come in to study alone, at random times of the weekend, wether it's late at night or noon. I think he as seen me sit there for hours, reading, writing personal pages, sometimes sitting outside and people gazing. I like it that way though, being alone. Most of the time. So far I've felt okay. His smile always lingers a bit, and sometimes so do his eyes. I love his eyes, for just meeting them straight on those couple of times. His eyes warm mine, it's kinda weird.

I'll probably stop going soon. When I start to notice comfort I flee. It's an instinct. My heart is so jaded, even without having gone out with many - hardly any guys and it's not really those guys' faults. My life keeps everyone away. Sometimes, i'm horrible that way. I've always done this, and sometimes I don't know how to stop.

His eyes will stay with me, still. I don't know how to make that stop either.

Waves.

From crests to throughs my life goes. Dips and Heights. Today is definitely a dip. dip. drip. 

Chocolate, it's my favorite sweet.

Dust. Dirt. Brown. I can’t quite find the right word to describe my skin color. It’s not that I’ve really had issues with my skin color. I mean, I’ve grown to accept the infinitesimal qualities that come with it. You can’t tell very well when I blush. I’m like a chameleon, with spotty color here and there; it’s not even colored all the way. When an uncomfortable moment comes, my facial expression might very well give me away, but never my skin. I’m able to adapt to summer heat waves. In the summer I take on a darker coat that with wintertime I slowly efface.

I want to love my coat. I want to embrace my dark skin that houses my soul, which I am ashamed to admit contributes to some of my insecurities. I know, I’m not twelve anymore, but let me just deal with this for a moment. Especially when that color comes from my father. The one person I care nothing for, or rather cares less about my brother and I, gave me the only thing he ever cared to give me after birth: his appearance. I’m actually the exact same replica of my father’s mother. You should see how everyone stares at me (from his side of the family) when we visit them, as if their mother was breathing and talking right in front of them. Perhaps, that’s the reason why I associated my big nose, my dark texture, and round face to become negative, repugnant qualities. It’s as if the world transpired to remind each and every day, of the face that was responsible for the issues my mom deals with every day of her life, I used to think.

There was a time, when I wanted to stay indoors to retain the light, not quite as dark, color that would imitate that of my mothers’. Today, I can ignore any comments that attempt to degrade me based on skin color, but the funny thing is that the most offending comments always end up coming from family members – very close ones at that.

You see, I come from a very colonial background, a traditional machista Mexican family. We all come in various shades of dark brown - hazel, chocolate milk, and even white. It is customary to have that one guera in the family, and the negra. If you’ve seen me, you can very well guess my nickname growing up. They always have a joke about how -since my mom’s hospital bed was next to an African American lady - the nurse must have traded babies. Growing up, as family members retold the story countless of times, I felt embarrassed, but I accustomed myself to accept this and to laugh. I confirmed whatever they felt about color. The cries and exultations of adults in our family when a light colored cousin was born were never lost on me. If one came to the dark end of the brown spectrum, they’d be a chuckle, but I don’t like to think that there’s any hate. No, it was more of a sense of relief when a white colored baby was born – adoration quickly ensued.

I don’t know that I was treated unfairly, different perhaps, and I would really rather not think back on all those moments where I was for I would like to keep the image that I hold so dear about my family. Tragic events not too far from the present do not allow me to do this, and I know they aren’t horrible people, so I’ll stop here in the present.

 I just want respect, that which is bestowed on everyone else. I’m not perfect, and being a woman I grew up apologizing for many – too many -  things that I now realize I never should have apologized for in the first place. I’d rather you insult me on my deficiencies rather than on my skin color, as if I there were inherent undesirable characteristics that come along with pigment.  If you ask me, it’s a cheap trick. If you want to insult me, come at me, but without any references to color.  One day you will become mature, and realize how much this hurts. One day doesn’t erase this moment or the ones I am sure are still to come. Good thing I can move on and have the ability to not dwell on this, just don’t’ do this often please. I don’t want you to repeat this with your children, or in front of my children (if I ever have any).  I lose respect quickly for you if you cannot look past color, even if you are very dear to me. I will always love you, and treat you with respect, but I can never fully respect and trust you if cannot look past the tone of my skin. 

Baggy Eyes.

I'll have baggy eyes for endless days. Dark, ring circles around and below my eyelids.

Love. What is it exactly? So much to give, yet so difficult to give.