Names change history.
The hue lightens,
dims with each question.

Because loved ones encourage
the white girl to come out,
entertain island relatives with annunciations.
She repossesses the larynx, alter surnames,
erases 100 years of history.

Because job interviews are unlike game shows
and my name is hard to understand
beneath a blanket of accents.

Conversations about "keeping it real"
echo childhood memories on Adams Avenue.
"Never forget where you come from
cuz you'll be back with all those books",
Coconut, oreo, vendapatria
erode the brain with guilt and doubt
while dictionary pages turn under flashlights.

Dreams of self-advancement rise
like the flour tortillas
great-grandma Valencia made.

Because the white girl is treated like a light switch
off and on
on and off
with inevitable fear of turning her
on and on and on.

Where is the candle wax on wooden floors,
santeros covered in white with yellow beads around their necks
chanting Spanish words.
Where are the booming congas and tambourines,
because dancing might make her go away.