There is a mystery in my skin
of colors and truth and unknown kin
I walk around looking like half of me
always confusing The Other.
My own relations don’t understand my name
they think their version is real
but it’s story, just the same
since everyone who knew the truth
is dead:
My grandmother
a Scots-irish sixth daughter
stubborn as a nail in an old board
and just as sharp
My grandfather
dark and stoic in his bolo ties
raven-haired and lactose intolerant
sticking out among his many siblings like a lump of coal
nestled in an egg carton next to
pearly Whiteness
a lump of black coal from someplace hidden
secret, underground, misplaced
he even died from lung cancer
as if he’d been breathing coal dust
all his life
in the pure mountain air
And my mother
brown as the earth
a gorgeous Indian princess
hair and eyes like her father
a chip off the ol’ lump of coal
emerging from a White womb
an only daughter, her mother
made sure she was always dressed
in the fifties’ Sunday best
her smile and dimples hiding her misery
loneliness in the family
What else could have been her suffering
in a earthquake-prone town divided along fault lines
of class and color
where her grandfather raised chickens
she looked more like the Mexicans
than her own brothers
walking through the same hallways
of San Fernando, post W W II L.A.
where brown La Bamba Ritchie serenaded his White MaDonna.
I met Donna 35 years later and she said
things were different back then
brown and White didn’t always mix well, no
café con leche
only coffee — and milk.
I know now of my mother’s secret shame
a violation she could never claim
one even her husband never knew.
But what else did those ebony eyes see
and shed tears?
Eyes like ripe black olives that faded to young green ones
over time
like mine
ojos de miel
a sign of the mestizo
mixed-blood, hazel-eyed, half-breed
My relations think their version is real
but it’s no less story than mine
since everyone who knew the truth
is dead
or ain’t talkin’
but I doubt my uncles know
since so few really knew
her
or anything —
and few really saw
her
anyway.
So I claim my unnamed ancestors
the father of Ada Leah, bastard child, and
the secrets my matriarchs kept
in their lady parts
and silent hearts
I am the only one left
and I stand now with all my kin
and honor this mystery in my skin.
© S. Rinderle, 2012 — dedicated to Jane Huber Rinderle 10/22/12
