The Girl in the Mirror

I look in the mirror

and try to make sense of what I see.

Does it match what I know? 

I know I’m Hispanic;

I speak Spanish 

and eat arroz con frijoles. 

I know I’m Dominican; 

I’ve been to my mom’s home country

and eat Sancocho. 

I know I’m Colombian;

I’ve roamed the streets of Bogotá 

and eat salpicón. 

But I look in the mirror and wonder:

What do other people see?

Do they see my light skin 

or my curly hair?

Do they see someone American 

or someone Hispanic?

Does it matter what they see?

My fun fact is always: 

I’m Hispanic. 

Why?

Because people look at me and notice

that I’m not exactly white, 

but don’t connect the dots

until they hear me speak Spanish. 

I’ve always found that irritating, 

that I don’t look Hispanic

that no one assumes I’m Hispanic.

But the thing is,

there isn’t one way to look Hispanic. 

It doesn’t matter if others question me

because I know. 

The people I love know. 

Those who matter to me know. 

I’m Hispanic,

and the girl looking back at me in the mirror?

She’s Hispanic too.