i want to hang my self out of the car window and just yell, just yell till it hurts my throat and i can't yell anymore. i just want to yell for everything that has ever bothered me and i want yell again as he drives around and lets me yell out the window like no one has ever yelled before. and he lets me. as he drives around the hills and valley suburbs of this city. i yell for the losses that i've had and the losses that i know i will have. i yell for what i want and what i know that i will never have. but he drives and he lets me yell for all the things that i want that i know i will never have. but this friend of mine, this good friend of mine he drives in this hilly neighborhood and he lets me yell because i can. because i can yell. i can yell at top of my lungs just a yell that no one has done. he drives around letting me hang out the window half of my body waiting to fall out. because i can. sitting on the edge of the sill. just yelling, screaming from top of my lungs. he keeps driving i'm not sure why perhaps, because he knows that i need something, something more than the norm of regular human emotion, but he lets me. lets me yell like have i've never yelled. till my throat is raw and the air itself takes my breath away but i yell... and he lets me as he drives aimlessly...
My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...
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