Native

“You’re not native,” states the woman ahead of me in the long slow grocery line. She’d asked me where I was from, and, as usual, I said, “I live here.” We’re on Kaua’i, so she probably means Native Hawaiian.

I nod my fair head yes, I am native, and she stares at my blue eyes. “Really?”

I hold her gaze and nod again. By which I mean that I am native to Earth, born and raised. I am human. 

During this short-long life, I have learned that there is no They, only Us. One race — human. Divisiveness can be unlearned, though it’s difficult. Much easier to hate. But hate is only hurt, twisted around. 

We have all been wounded. We have all done the wounding. But just because you have been injured doesn’t give you the right to injure me. We deserve better. Jealousy doesn’t suit us. There is plenty for everyone. You matter. I matter. We matter.

Our beliefs are expressed in our actions. And I am subject to prejudices like anyone else. But whenever I am given a form where race is asked, I always check Other and write in Human.

“¡Extranjera!” sneered a vendor earlier this year. Foreigner. An epithet in his mouth. I shook my head and left. But with another man, spouting about Americanos, I quietly disagree. “Gente,” I say. People. And he nods. Sí. La gente.

“What about morphology?!” said one guy. Indeed. What about it? How has labeling folks helped us grow? All I know is that names can hurt as much as sticks and stones. Watch it. And I will do you the same courtesy.