By Isabella Avila
Racist remarks, glares, and stares leave nail sized holes in my palms and feet
White hostility and casual racism
Something that I’ve grown to know
It tears my uniform pantyhouse and stains my white peterpan collars
The word “faggot” sit heavy in humidity in the small confessionals
Dear white pastors and nuns,
Why wasn’t I made in the same image and likeness as you?
Why was my intelligence overlooked?
My potential minimized?
But yet, my colored peers and I are on all your brochures.
My skin too deep a brown?
Her hair too “ethnic”?
His sexuality not sit comfortably on your outdated bible pages?
She, a virgin Mary in your twelve years of Christmas plays?
Me, always stage crew?
And if I’m lucky, an angel.
If I dare bite back your conservative lesson plans
I am disobeying.
If the white classmate next to me was talking,
Why was I given the detention?
Boys who called me dyke repeatedly in the eighth grade get a stern talking to,
but saying “crap” in the fourth grade gets a call to my mom
So dear white pastors and nuns,
Why do your racism and homophobia taste the familiar bitter of red communion wine?
This poem is a short reflection of my experience as a queer latina and those similar of my fellow classmates who were also minorities who attended a primarily white Catholic school for twelve years. My objective was to capture and bring light to the backhanded racism and homophobia that is swept under rugs and damages the LGBT and POC community.