by Kayla Rene Texidor
After Melissa Lozada-Olivas’ “Petition to Get All White Girls
to Stop Wearing Hoop Earrings”
He spat, “When you wear those big chunky boots, you look like those fucking white girls.”
Puerto Ricans can’t be goth, you see, and they can’t be sad.
We must know all the bochinche and spread it like they think we spread our legs.
Wildfire on the dance floor, we love to sing.
But I sound like a coqui and am too shy to dance.
Papi never taught me bachata. He’s shy, too.
Puerto Ricans can’t be goth, and they can’t be gay, and they can’t like both.
They can love women,
the kind with gold in their ears and hair to their hips.
But this is only if you’re a man,
leaching on our honeyed nectar, spinning tales and affections.
Five different children my grandpa had.
But my dad never knew him.
Puerto Ricans can’t be goth, and they can’t be white, but they can’t be Black.
Only Cafe con leche.
They can’t speak proper English, and they can’t speak proper Spanish, but they call us angry.
I call it passion.
They can’t live in America, but you can find us in every major city.
They can’t live on the Island cause los gringos are buying all the land. The beaches are almost gone; the hotels got those.
Puerto Ricans can’t be goth, but they can fight. This, they got right.
A defiance passed down from our ancestors.
Puerto Ricans can’t be goth, and they can’t wear all black.
Dripped in red florals and color, we must be sexy.
All bust and hips but no morals or wit.
Never someone’s wife, always the mistress.
When was I Puerto Rican?
I was Puerto Rican when mi Tio gave me my first pair of Doc Martins and a biker jacket.
When I got my first set of acrylics and gold hoops.
I was Puerto Rican when my teachers told Mami
I couldn’t focus, a little too late,
so they held me back.
I guess they couldn’t see the world of fantasy I locked myself away in.
I was Puerto Rican when I first started hating my curls.
Buying a flat iron and straightening them to a crisp,
they’ve never been the same.
I was Puerto Rican when my first white boy called me spicy
and when one of them knew more Spanish than me.
I was Puerto Rican when my brother died, and my world shattered.
But teachers labeled it an excuse, and so I dropped out of high school.
Puerto Ricans have to be strong, you see?
Sympathy, that’s not for us.
I was Puerto Rican growing up in the El Barrio projects.
I was Puerto Rican when my dad dodged stray bullets after someone shot into a crowd.
I was Puerto Rican when—
When I went home—our real home
and saw Abuela’s barrio in Monacillo
with her eight Chihuahuas,
where I made best friends I would never see again.
I was Puerto Rican when I left a part of myself in El Yunque and Luquillo.
Luquillo, it’s different now; the beach is not the same, the magic commercialized.
Yet I walk it because I am Puerto Rican
You may not hear the clunk of my boots in the sand, but they hold me up just fine.
Kayla Rene Texidor is a second-generation Puerto Rican writer from Spanish Harlem pursuing a degree in Creative Writing. Passionate about exploring identity and heritage, she draws inspiration from Taino cultural myths, aiming to publish a sci-fi/fantasy series one day. Kayla’s work often reflects the complexities of being Latina, Queer, and from the inner city, weaving narratives of resilience, cultural pride, and self-discovery. She aspires to do work that amplifies Latinx voices and myths. Beyond writing, she enjoys creating art, cosplay, gaming, and spending time with her cat.
Also read Texidor’s poem, “Two Girls and New York.”
