The Definition of Color
The property processed of an object of producing different sensations on the eye as a result of the way the object reflects or emits light. Color, you can hate it, love it, feel it, taste it, or just tolerate it. Defining color doesn’t necessarily mean deciding a person’s ethnicity, race, sexual orientation, or religious beliefs. However, it makes it a whole lot easier to segragate, whites and blacks, native-Americans, Latinos, Asians, homosexuals, Protestants, Catholics, Muslims and Christians.
The segregations within our own religion and ethinicity are at times defined by class, ocupation and of course color. Simply the color of your skin will let you know if your grandmother likes you or not or whether to have expectations of you if any. In Mexican soap-opera the lead roles go to a males or females with light or white skin and colored eyes (light brown, blue, green). The color of your skin also defines whether God loves you more if at all. Remember God doesn’t like ugly. I like believing in the benefit of the doubt, because doubt has really one benefit; the choice to believe.
Reading someone through their skin, doesn’t make you a person who is “people literate.” It makes you ignorant.
At school people attack me with pamphlets, trying to encourage me to join a Chicano club, Be aware, brown pride, Chicano power! The truth is that, they make me feel like another plus to a population doesn’t really care if I share the same ideas, it’s as if all they need is to keep their numbers up. I can claim to be Chicano all by myself, I don’t need a group, support an idea, or agree. I choose not to be Chicano because I have the choice, segregating ourselves doesn’t make us stronger it makes us weaker.
I am a Mexican-American. The Mexican comes first because thats what people see first, I could be any other Latino origin but most choose Mexican (although...they're right), people question my citizenship, my ability to speak English, and my education. There is a dash in between Mexican and American (-), some see it as a divider, I see it as a connection between both of my cultures. My parents see that I'm one, however; I’m both. American comes last because after examining and questioning me, people will figure it out; whether they will accept me is up to them. Whether I want to be accepted is up to me, I don’t want to be where I'm not wanted. I will be where I'm needed.
Music doesn’t define me, it helps me find myself and come at peace with myself.
Color isn’t a factor of definition, to me it’s a circumstance.
Monday, September 28, 2009
When Summer Ends
When Summer Ends
There lives an old man with an amputated leg accross the street from my parents house, he looks like a Vietnam veteran. The flag that hangs from his window gives away his Cuban heritage, and is often accompanied by his care taker. Every summer he drags out his beach chair to his front yard; he sits there shirtless, wearing only shorts, knee high socks and black worn-out dress shoes. Since moving to this house, that my parents live in now, the old man sits outside of his house boasting in the summer sun come every end of spring.
Summer is the season when most people find love, advanture, spiritual moments and just plain fun. When I was younger I played with my brother, sister and cousins outsdie in the street; playing basketball, baseball, football, water-ballon fights, tag and any other game that we could think of. Sitting on the steps of my grandmothers house laughing because of a sudden breeze. Our parents, squeezing ten of us into my uncles van to watch an old Disney classic at a drive in. Swiming in the local community pool where we would see all of our elementary classmates. Having a carne asada just for the heck of it; the older folks would sit near the shade and talk about the changing times, the men would sit near the cooler of beer and laugh at jokes and teases, the women would sit around the table drinking Coronas with lime singing and smiling.
Summer time as a child was and always will be awesome; not having any worries, doubts, expectations or realizations of life. I remember getting excited when the sprinkler was going to spin our way again, recieving that cooling bliss was ecstacy. Summer is wondrous because it reminds me to appreciate my memories and family. The sun comfort us with love and opened our eyes to see what the land had to offer. I remember laying down on the table of my aunt’s patio enjoying the summer wind while listening to our favorite radio station; Power106. Looking up at the fading afternoon sky, hoping that summer would never end.
Like the leaves of my grandfather’s avacado tree, the weather changes. In a blink of an eye I’m asking myself, “what am I doing with my life?” With so many problems in the world today, one forgets the simplest of times. I usually run to my window and wait for the love that the summer breeze whispers to my skin. I was sitting on the steps of my parents house listenning to my ipod, when I noticed the old man from accross the street. He walked outside of his house holding his beach chair. He looked from one end of the block to the other, then gazed at the sky and pondered at the scenery of the empty block. He looked back into his house and walked back inside. That’s when I knew that summer had come to an end.
There lives an old man with an amputated leg accross the street from my parents house, he looks like a Vietnam veteran. The flag that hangs from his window gives away his Cuban heritage, and is often accompanied by his care taker. Every summer he drags out his beach chair to his front yard; he sits there shirtless, wearing only shorts, knee high socks and black worn-out dress shoes. Since moving to this house, that my parents live in now, the old man sits outside of his house boasting in the summer sun come every end of spring.
Summer is the season when most people find love, advanture, spiritual moments and just plain fun. When I was younger I played with my brother, sister and cousins outsdie in the street; playing basketball, baseball, football, water-ballon fights, tag and any other game that we could think of. Sitting on the steps of my grandmothers house laughing because of a sudden breeze. Our parents, squeezing ten of us into my uncles van to watch an old Disney classic at a drive in. Swiming in the local community pool where we would see all of our elementary classmates. Having a carne asada just for the heck of it; the older folks would sit near the shade and talk about the changing times, the men would sit near the cooler of beer and laugh at jokes and teases, the women would sit around the table drinking Coronas with lime singing and smiling.
Summer time as a child was and always will be awesome; not having any worries, doubts, expectations or realizations of life. I remember getting excited when the sprinkler was going to spin our way again, recieving that cooling bliss was ecstacy. Summer is wondrous because it reminds me to appreciate my memories and family. The sun comfort us with love and opened our eyes to see what the land had to offer. I remember laying down on the table of my aunt’s patio enjoying the summer wind while listening to our favorite radio station; Power106. Looking up at the fading afternoon sky, hoping that summer would never end.
Like the leaves of my grandfather’s avacado tree, the weather changes. In a blink of an eye I’m asking myself, “what am I doing with my life?” With so many problems in the world today, one forgets the simplest of times. I usually run to my window and wait for the love that the summer breeze whispers to my skin. I was sitting on the steps of my parents house listenning to my ipod, when I noticed the old man from accross the street. He walked outside of his house holding his beach chair. He looked from one end of the block to the other, then gazed at the sky and pondered at the scenery of the empty block. He looked back into his house and walked back inside. That’s when I knew that summer had come to an end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)