I thought, There could be nothing more awkward than two half naked middle-school girls fighting in the middle of a locker room the imaginative and ingenious verbal warfare of “*****” and “Perra” bouncing off the tall cold grey concrete walls of the showers combined with the energetic and exaggerated use of hand gestures and physical intimidation could not be ignored though I tried, even as the others spectated and incited the two opponents Because mi guela always says Las mujercitas no se meten donde no la quieran (Little ladies don’t intervene) I thought there could be nothing more awkward Than hiding my face inside a gym locker With two half-naked middle school girls arguing behind me Until I heard one of them say “Stop acting like a Mexican” Mujercita o no I could not remain silent “What’s that supposed to mean? I asked her, “You know I am Mexican too?” I thought there could be nothing more awkward Than two half naked middle school girls fighting Until I saw both their eyes appraising me Then shifting between each other with their brows raise in agreement they said to me “Mariza you know you’re white” “An Oreo when it comes down to it” I didn’t know that the name of my favorite cookie could hurt so much When said with a strange mixture of disinterest and certainty And I didn’t even know what it meant But I knew that it was an evaluation of my Mexicanness of my identity All the mujercitas slowly poured out of that locker room Not a one making an objection or even feigning interest in what was said to me It did not matter that I spoke Spanish It didn’t matter I grew up able to quote every Maria Silvestre movie line It didn’t matter how much I idolized Vicente Guerro and Emilio Zapata It didn’t matter how I saw myself The mujercitas agreed I was dark on the outside, white on the inside For years, I tried my hardest to prove I was Mexican But it seems that the standards changed every year No one was ever convinced No one wanted to be associated with me No one believed that I truly cared about the Mexican community To this day I am trying What does it mean to be Mexican? I’m still trying to figure that out It must be more than a facha, a look It must be more than music, celebrations, a shared Language, And an Experience It must be but No body has ever told me what it is Only what it is not Which is Me an Oreo And all that it implies A pocha, a race-traitor, a sell out Dark on the outside white on the inside