Things have always been difficult understanding my identity, is it supposed to be based on skin color, culture or family? Understand, most of my existence has been an intrinsic search to make sense of the universe, unsure of my purpose purposed in a complexity of uncertainties defined by a perversity that my generation has forced upon me…

Who am i?

My school days were spent trying to discover my niche; felt like life threw me a curve because I was never been able to hit the pitch. Bought in to every lie about how much I sucked, no natural talent no matter how hard I worked – sleeves rolled up. Disgust began to well up from within, no recognition from men meant I would never fit in. So I attempted to formulate a mold that would equate to what I felt could demonstrate to outsiders my hate that had been built up against their views depicting me as a wretch. Sick of being bad mouthed, a stretched truth was what I developed to prevent myself from spazzing out. All because what was real did not feel like it made sense of this puzzle that was muzzling my soul. Kids pointed the finger, making it a point to let me know the color of my skin and how dim it was compared to a real Mexican. I tried to recede the opposite direction of anything that would cause someone to associate me with what dudes from my neighborhood considered lesser beings, all because I was confused by weird emotions and feelings.

Who am i?

What you are about to hear may be said with complete indiscretion, but I have been known to view my white side as the ugly twin. While my Mexican genes I pool from are swimming in a never ending river flow that can’t seem to make it to the shore, I would implore God to make my skin tone different. If Michael Jackson could do it then I was determined to push the limits. All this is based on the simple principle that I’m white… but I’m not. I have fought tooth and nail to make sure peoples words would never impale my ego. Despite how hard I kicked and screamed though, something within began to snowball. Kid’s picked and they teased… family was never there to help me squeeze past these things and until recently I found this still affects my perception of my identity. The things I feel when people even look at me; whether I’m at the gym; the grocery store; with friends; Hawaii or even when I perform poetry, reveals the thickness of my insecurities that have been cemented into my self esteem.

Who am i?

There were times when I stepped on stage only to hear the same ole same ole – “oh, he a poet? He must be whack… I mean look at his skin color he ain’t even black.” I have had MMA fights with racism birthed from the hate-ism that has been against me all my life. So I became racist of myself, Auschwitzing my white skin color is what I was about. I used to cry while I screamed at the mirror in fear that the person on the other side would come to life and wake me up to the truth. Angry at God for being a ruth-less jerk and making me all wrong, a hatred of women developed since their womb forces us to sing a certain song. I saw no escape from a destiny that fostered this disgusting face… but wait what if identity isn’t based on appearance… no matter how fly I might look in the stuff I got on clearance? What if their is an invisible feature behind the mirror that holds something precious, something heterogenous, put in me from the earths foundation back when man was first created. What if everything that has ever been insinuated by peoples false projections were just false perceptions. What if someone existed who knew me by name, who cared about me regardless of my skin color being dark or plain. The sad thing is I’ve known this all along (points to head), but i’ve never know this all along (points to heart). Possibly the hardest trip i ever had to make was from the head to the heart, which is why i went into cardiac arrest after speeding down that blvd. It took me a while to get it… but all this time i was asking the wrong question; 21 years were spent trying to figure out this life lesson. I was so saturated in a state of emotional abuse, talking about who am I? when i should have been asking who are you? My theology was all chopped and screwed like someone on the 1’s and 2’s with a ginsu. Was far too preoccupied with what people might think, but I ripped off those chains and got a new name tatted in eternal ink. I know who i am now, which has caused my biracial birth to make sense. I gotta God complex cause I was made in his image, he made me new, so the least I could do with this life is give it.

Who am i?

Im a child of God.