White Girl

She called me white girl. Still does. Usually she was teasing but sometimes it was meant to sting. Meant to let me know that there was a whole world that I could never understand. That we were different. A reminder of my people vs. hir people. She always won that argument.

After our first date, when I pulled hir to me for a first kiss and snuck my hand under a perfectly tailored shirt, after that she called and said, “Are you sure you’re white? Cause you aint cold like other white womyn. You’ve got passion. Jaja! No, I think you must be Latina…” And I was proud.

I spent days pouring over recipes. Making tamales. Making maduros and gallo pinto. Making an effort. But for who?

I remember the exact angle of hir back that day in the park. When she ran into an old friend and there were big hugs and shrieks of recognition. When I stood there smiling behind hir. Waiting for an introduction that would never come. She spoke quickly and I walked slowly up the hill. After 10 months I knew only distant names.

Only some streets were for hand holding. On others we walked as if we hardly knew each other. There were entire cities where she couldn’t touch me. Not even in hir truck. Sometimes not even behind a locked door. You don’t understand, she’d say. This is Yes on 8 country. It’s not safe. And I wondered what she was so scared of. And I thought I could make hir feel safe enough to love in public. But she was right. I didn’t understand.

I could love hir. In my heart, my mind, in my bed. And she could love me too. We could love each other. But could I ever really know hir? Or would this white girl have always been too far from hir? Too far to touch and hold and grasp.

I read and listen. I taste and watch. But I’ll never know.