I look at myself in the mirror and I see no value, no worth, no dignity. I see insufficiency. I see repulsion. I see something unsightly. I tell others that they are fearfully and wonderfully made but I can’t stomach the same medicine. It’s a bitter taste to bear.
In the midst of the conversation I was asked, “Why are you so angry about this? This doesn’t even affect you. You’re not Native American.” Now, there are million things wrong with that line of questioning. However, I leaned into a particular part of the question that cast an even more particular degree of Puerto Rican shade: “Whatchu mean I’m not Native American?” (Insert side-eye)