La Cubana

I am a representation of our history

The mountains and slopes of my body

Tangles of my charcoal hair

Santeria that stirs my spirit


Intertwined with warrior strength

Warm undertones of my skin

Reminding me of the village that no longer exists


Ripped from their land like the color from my skin

The gray in my eyes a mixture of the sweet honey and cold winter sky

My height, short

Blood boils in my veins like my temper

My tongue enslaved to speak the language


My holy trinity

A mixture of all three

Equal in my image.

A creation of three beautiful cultures intertwined

Africana. Taino. Espanola.

A rope so strong nothing could break it.


The history of a nation written in my blood

I represent the genocide of a people

The slavery of another

The pain and passion, the love and greed

You don’t look latina, they say to me

Ignorance seeping through their teeth

For how could they possibly remember cultures

When all they do is destroy them

The only image they know of, thier own.

Anything different posing a threat

My roots ground me

Reminding me of the rich cultures my body holds

To be proud of what I have or do not have

Ever one of them telling a part of our story

Going further back in time to create the person I am

They know nothing of the variety and vastness of Latin America

Each tongue bending the same words into different shapes

Countries, tears, war, battles, music, language, dominance,

All coming together to form the paradox of my bloodline

You don’t look latina, they say to me

But they don’t see what’s in plain sight.

They don’t take the time to examine the details

How could they ever understand a culture so strong

When their roots were created to destroy mine.

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