Cultural Identity

No hablo ingles

I want to say.

As the flashing lights

Pull up behind,

Surround me

Inundate me.

Of course it isn’t believable.

Blue eyes, fair skin, freckles.

A driver’s license that

Gives edict of my residential birth.

But I say it,

In my mind,

Denying the reality of my skin.

I want to claim my true culture

My internal identity,

But the barrier of my skin

My heritage

My birthright

Cannot be broken.

What’s in a name?

What’s in a color?

Why do we label them as other?

If I am me, and you are you,

If I understand you,

If you understand me,

Then where is the need…

Craniology,

Or something of that sort.

Didn’t you know

There are 5 different sizes?

Therein lies the difference.

It was all pre-ordained, really.

Didn’t you know

The Bible says…

Therein lies the difference.

They’re not really human.

Didn’t you know

We’re doing them a big favor

Making their lives better

Civilizing them.

Therein lies the difference.

They’re stealing our jobs.

Didn’t you know

They’re

Lazy

Thieves

Liars

Criminals.

Therein lies the difference.

But it was a lie.

Where is the difference?

Where is the difference?

I am an egg.

You are a twinkie.

Can’t we just be

What we are,

How we are,

Who we are?

I am a cyborg.

I am not black.

I am not brown.

I am not yellow.

I am not red.

I am not white.

Karito

I was sitting there,

alone in the dark.

You waltzed over,

sprinkled light on my face,

and then there were two.

Walking hand in hand,

more than friends,

sisters of the heart,

we stumbled

over a sunbeam,

and then there were three.

Closer, we could not have been,

through music of the soul,

the new rhythms

you thrust into my core

will never cease

to make me smile,

and I pray

our music remains

in your heart

forever.

What comes first?

I believe in love,

so transcendental,

so powerful,

that it defeated death.

I believe in love,

that looks past

all petty differences

and disagreements.

I believe in love,

which puts others

first in your life,

even if they've hurt you.

I believe in love,

that isn't based

on what you do

or who you are.

I believe in love,

of God,

of the world,

of myself.

Baking is a Hobby

So I know half of the fun of experimental baking is not writing down the recipe you made up, or basing it off of a recipe in the first place, but once you make something good...I don't want to forget it haha. I absolutely love to bake...and cook...but more bake than cook :) Here in Peru, well at least in my family's house, we don't have measuring cups, so every experience in the kitchen is that of experiment. I've started baking quite a bit recently. Last week, I made some scones, based off a recipe, but I didn't like how they made them...so I modified it to fit my taste. This is the original recipe:http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/strawberry-yogurt-scones/detail.aspx . A great recipe to start out with because it's very simple, and fairly healthy for scones. Plus, you can always make it healthier by using substitutes like egg beaters and fat free yogurt :) Also, you should note that there is no baking soda in Peru, only baking powder, so I have to use twice as much baking powder to make it turn out the same way. Well for this recipe, I didn't like using strawberry yogurt, so instead, I used vanilla yogurt with about 6 fresh strawberries cut up into little pieces, and one orange, also sliced up. After mixing up the batter (with my hands of course!) I test-tasted it and decided it wasn't sweet enough. There wasn't any sugar in the original recipe, so I added about a fourth of a cup of sugar, and a dash of vanilla extract. Then it tasted good! So I put them in the oven, and while they were in the oven, I blended up the rest of the strawberries with another orange to make a sauce, which I poured over the scones before serving them....okay, so it might have tasted a little more like strawberry shortcake than a scone, but they were good! :)

Tonight, my family still hadn't given me any sign that they were going to feed me supper at 10:30, so I popped into the kitchen and decided to experiment with the ingredients that I could find. I ended up making a sort of mix between bread pudding and pieces of french toast. First I took one orange and cut it into small pieces, then I tore two slices of bread into small pieces and added it to the orange. Next came one egg, two tablespoons of sugar, a fourth a cup of milk, and three dashes of vanilla extract (if you can't tell, I love to use vanilla extract in baking--also almond, but I don't know if that exists here). After mixing it all up, I put it in the saucepan on the stove until I was pretty sure the egg was all the way cooked. Then I topped it off with some maple syrup and dug in--delicious :)

First Love

I'm praying for you tonight.

You don't know me,

and I don't know you,

but somehow, we are both known.

In the soft dark,

my thoughts flex their wings

and soar on currents

blowing to you.

Your greatest joy,

your worst failure,

floating on

the winds of

celestial air.

I lift them both

up to the windows

of the One who knows,

who knows you,

who knows me,

and trust

that one day,

we will meet,

that He guards

your heart,

your mind,

your love,

for Himself,

until the day

when we are equal

in our love

for One

so much greater,

until the day

when we will meet

and strive together

for our first love.

The beginning

She sat on her bed, one foot under her butt, just thinking in the shadows of the room. The sun was gradually sliding down the sky, sometimes hiding behind the wispy gray clouds, sometimes shooting friendly beams of warmth across her pensive face. It seemed like there was no one to talk to, no one to have fun with, no one to eat or drink with—no one to love. Every day she got up, went through the daily rituals of cleansing, eating, going to school. Everyone smiled, a few stared, many just walked on by. The other students in her class greeted her, but no one bothered to ask why she looked so tired every day. No one rushed to sit by her. A few kind students made efforts to include her in the conversations, but they didn’t know her, didn’t know that she wasn’t interested in their silly gossip, that she didn’t want to participate. This was normal, it was her life. Sometimes she took the chance, reached out, tried to fit in with the mindless chatter, tried to pretend that the pointless activities had some profound meaning, but eventually she always cracked her mask, couldn’t keep acting like she cared, and ended up alone. Again. Just sitting and thinking, pondering, wishing for a friend. The rare times when she couldn’t deal with it anymore, her heart overloaded with loneliness and longing, she poured it all into her music, her writing, her art, tears flowing down, which she tried to hide from the world. She knew she was silly, and yet she couldn’t escape the feelings that always dragged her down. To her, it was real, and something she couldn’t just walk away from. She concealed her feelings from those she knew to love her, except in moments of weakness, because, however well-intentioned they were, they never ended up really listening. Instead, they ended up talking about their own lives, or butting in with advice, thinking feelings are a simple math problem that can be solved with the right equation.

Luchas

Tears of yesterday
fall into the footprints of the present,
the dirt creasing and smudging
the crisp impressions of new life.
What is this grudge against learning,
against embracing the vibrant,
the living mezcla of tuturutu,
aji, and el pie de Misti?
Stuck in the mold
of dreams known before,
Luchas for new inspiration,
new love, nueva hogar.