Chicomecoatl, I welcome you.

by Paradise Martnez Graff

If we are interested in building a movement that will

not constantly be subverted by internal differences,
then we must build from the inside out, not the other way
around. Coming to terms with the suffering of others has
never meant looking away from our own. And, we must
look deeply. We must acknowledge that to change the
world, we have to change ourselveseven sometimes our most cherished block-hard convictions.
Cherrie Moraga in This Bridge Called My Back

esitant to cherish mis raizes gringas, my

suffering, I tell Antonio, By White-Passing, I
mean that I pass off as white, but I dont refer
to myself as white. My voice now bangs on the walls, my
volume, thunderous and surviving, pleading for help, but
no one hears my call. I feel too strongly, to speak, so I
stop.
I hold my palms together, as if ready to pray - for
nourishment, for fire, to the Aztec goddess of maize, my
skin and soul, Chicomecoatl1I pinch my lips with my
index fingers and Breathe.
We have been together for six months. Almost two
full seasons, yet Antonio still reads my Latin lathered
lips, my Rs rolled into handmade corn tortillas, as
gera. Simply gera. No, he does not say gera2
nor gerita3. To him, my freckled masa colored curves
1Chicomecoatl/Xilonen: The sprouting and harvesting of maize was metaphorically
associated with ongoing cycle of birth, destruction, and regeneration of life.
2 Gera: Blonde girl
3 Gerita: Blonde little one

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whisper white. He does not use my words, to refer

me as I would like, for we use different tongues. So in
between my pause he says, But youre still white.
A further paleness suddenly takes over me. My
voice fades and my hands slowly fall on my quads as I
sit at the edge of Antonios frameless mattress. I want to
explain the pieces of Mexico within me - the southwest of
California and Tijuana, where I grew up, and my Mexican
parents - these snippets of my story that will justify my
Chicana4 identity.
I tell Antonio, I know, Im white. I receive white
privilege. Im aware of that, but I dont refer to myself as
white. Im being loud again. I pause, lower my voice,
and raise my words. so as not to keep Peter Antonios
roommate upstairs from texting him to keep me quiet
again. I take a deep breath to regain my strength, to
recollect mi historia, but I cannot find the words, only the
feelings, only my experience.
I tell Antonio, I didnt grow up with Englishspeaking parents. I grew up with Spanish-speaking
parents who migrated to this country from Mexico,
illegally, and alone...I know I have white skin. I know why
my sister tells me she wishes she had lighter skin since
lighter skin and anglo features are idolized around the
world. Okay? I understand, but when someone calls me
white, it offends me. I dont, and never have, identified
myself with white people...My parents werent raised
by white culture. I always saw white people as smarter
4 Chicana: coined during the Chicano Movement by Mexican American women who
wanted to establish social, cultural, and political identities for themselves in America.

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than me, more capable, better speakers. Thats what they

taught us. My fathers machismo, my mothers docility,
and their aggressive behavior, followed them from the
colonized lands of Mexico to the colonized lands of
Southern California. Am I supposed to erase that reality
because, to you, I am white? Tell me what that means,
Anthony.
I Pause. I Breathe.
White faces surround me. White spaces,
include me, seclude me, you from me, and I from
youHow do I begin this revolution,
if we are divided?
Anthony remains seated on his desk chair facing
me, with his legs open, stationary - as he was when we
began this conversation. He sits slouched, and repeats,
Buuut youure whiite.
His words sting. My eyelids shut down, quickly, like
two steel doors. I shake my head quietly. My shoulders
drag to the floor as my own doubts weigh down on me. I
pull my heavy hands over my face and inhale in order to
exhale anxiety.
He says, Just imagine if I called myself BlackPassing.

What? I scoff.

Yeah, I mean, Im black, well no, actually Im
brown, but I dont act according to black stereotypes.
Does that make me Black-Passing? Or imagine if a White
guy grows up in a community predominantly inhabited
by people of color. Does that mean hes not White?
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 I acknowledge he has a point, but only to myself,

for this is a point that requires further reflection. He
wants me to think of myself, white complexion, freckles,
mais coated skin, layered over HERstories5 and absent
HIStories6 of RAZA7, that I so boldly stand for. But I
refuse.
Before he begins again, I interject by mumbling,
Yes, fine, referring to myself as White-Passing is
problematic. Can we not talk about this further?
Antonios gaze remains fixed on me until I look away
from him and begin to pull school supplies out of my
backpack. We say nothing. I read articles off a clipboard,
glancing up at him from the queen sized mattress, a pile
of clean clothes beside me, while he sits on his chair,
slouched, and staring expressionlessly at his open closet.
It takes him around ten minutes to move. He pulls out a
sheet of paper, and begins writing.
When Im done, I go to the bathroom. I take my
phone with me, and skim apps while sitting on the
toilet. I quickly recall having urged myself yesterday to
reread todays horoscope February 2nd, 2015 to see if
anything it says aligns or follows the later part of today.
I click on the pink Horoscopes box on my home screen,
and hope the Wifi works, or my phone manages not to
die. It opens and reads,
Look to others, especially a close
partner, for inspiration today, as they may be
5 HERstories: recognizes that history was historically a male dominated field
6 HIStories: recognizes the pronoun in the word history
7 RAZA: A term used by latinos to identify themselves as a united community

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a foundation of new and original approaches

to life and circumstances. You may find them
somewhat abrupt in explaining themselves, but
thats impatience born of the fact that they may
see things very clearly at the moment. Avoid
confrontation while getting the details of what
they have to say, and dont take it personally,
its only intended to illuminate and help. It
aligns, so I smirk. Seconds later, my phone dies.
When I return from the restroom, Antonio is laying

on his bed glaring at the white wall perpendicular to his
bed. His shirt is off, he lies on his stomach, hands on his
chin, still pensive. I connect my phone to his charger and
tell him in a non-threatening voice about my coincidental
horoscope. When my cell lights up I call Antonio over to
his computer where my phone is charging. He crouches
down, and as he reads, I stare at him - his scruffy beard,
sleepy eyes, calm cheeks, until he smirks.
He does, but says nothing, so we crawl beneath
the sheets. We stretch our limbs around each others
contours, silently waiting on each other to speak. I kiss
the outline of his nose, hoping affection will break his
daze. When I ask why hes silent, he responds with, You
asked me not to speak. I look at him without words, eyes
quiver, my words lost. I think.
White faces surround me. White spaces, include me, seclude me - you from me, and I from
you - How do I begin this revolution,

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if we are divided?

Antonio, unconsciously, was challenging me to

collide the two narratives de mis jefes.
Padre - Chichimeca Jonaz, and Mexican, and
Spaniard, and migrant, and Brown brow. Madre
Mazahua or Nahuatl or Otomi or Purepecha and
Spaniard, and Mexican, and German and Japanese.
No, it was not my parents he was pushing me to
think of. It was not Mother a light skinned threat una
concepcin not planned, or desired, whose womb I
existed in during the years she trudged alone across the
border. It was I who needed me, to think of me and ask
me what I needed. I have come to find Chicomecoatl,
goddess of nourishment, fire, providence, energy,
community, abundance, fertility or strength. In my
mais colored skin. I have come to find that my internal
differences from the inside out, not the other way
around, ask me to question why I cried in Antonios arms
that night and confessed, Ive always hated being white.

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