Everywhere I looked,

I was nowhere to be found.

I’d see Janet & Chrissy

keeping Jack company on a daily.

And I’d see Mr. Jefferson

movin’ on up

while Rerun figured out

what’s happening.

But where was I?

I’d comb my Barbie’s

long, blond hair

and look into her deep blue eyes,

looking for a reflection

that wasn’t there.

Of course not.

She was foreign, alien,

unreal to me,

a young Puerto Rican girl

from “da Bronx,”

with dark brown eyes and

hair to match ‘em.

When my eyes wandered 

towards the ebony version of,

yes, Barbie again,

I quickly looked away.

I mean, my dad would never

have even considered it

since our African ancestry

was locked away in the

hidden attic of our past.

(“¿Y tu abuela?  ¿Dónde está?”)

So who looked like me?

Being an avid reader,

I looked to literature,

going from Nancy Drew to

Gone With the Wind to

Waiting to Exhale.

What the heck!

Am I invisible or something?!

Where am I to see myself

outside the reflection in a mirror?

Where could I find my culture,

so treasured and highly respected

by my mom,

so revered and practically worshipped

by my Puerto Rican studies professor a.k.a. Papi?

Why was it confined

to the walls of my home,

at least, as far as I could see?

The abounding history of

an island that was so

far away in distance

yet so close to my heart,

as I was taught to keep it.

A place I was not native to,

though I was made to feel as if I was,

for the blood that remained there,

embraced me, reminded me it was

my grandparents’ home,

my parents’ home,

my home

through legacy.

But my “gringa” accent said it all.

My broken Spanish,

that invoked kind giggles

and gentle corrections,

betrayed me every time.

And my longing to return to the

tall, endlessly lit buildings,

touched with artisans’ fingers

of spray paint and Sharpies,

was undeniable.

As beautiful as it was,

this island was not my home,

and not fully my culture,

nor could it ever be.

It was the place of my family’s origin,

not mine.

So where is my home-

A place where my invisibility is accepted and encouraged?

What is my culture-

Americana, Black Power, Indifference?

No. I will be invisible no more!

The Latino Chapters of Generation X

Are on the Rise,

Running things in the Performing Arts,

Rejecting negative stereotypes and

Refusing to allow misrepresentations

Define who we truly are.

No longer are the options

Limited for child’s play.

Now crafted in shades of

Honey, caramel, cinnamon

And dark chocolate,

They are an indisputable illustration

of the Browning of America.

Finally-

Literature written for me

By authors just like me,

Just like my parents,

Just like my children:

Judith Ortiz Cofer,

Esmeralda Santiago,

Martín Espada-

Puerto Rican authors,

From the island,

But not really.

Then there’s me-

Erika Sánchez de Alicea-

Forging my path,

Flaunting my culture,

Finding my voice

So no one can ever ignore me again.

Invisible No More.