'What is your race?' is the question
I was taught to never answer.
I wouldn't answer anyways,
Mostly because I don't know how.

My mother was born in Texas,
A typical American.
My father is Peruvian,
With his dark skin and thick accent.
Together they made a new batch
Of four multicultural kids.

Though my skin is blindingly white,
I belong to the Chocolate Lands.
I was born and raised in Peru,
In Iquitos, in the jungle.
I believe I'm more Hispanic
Than most of the 'essays' out there.

But if someone were to ask me
What race I was, I would be stuck.
I refuse to say 'Caucasian'
Because the word doesn't suit me.
I cannot say 'I'm Hispanic.'
Because then I get, 'No, you're not.'

Over the years I've come to learn
I don't want to be classified.
This question, questioning my race
Is just used to organize us.








My parents believe this question
Gives life to current racism.
It only puts emphasis
that we should be categorized.

If I'm applying for college,
If I'm applying for a job,
It honestly shouldn't matter
If I'm white, black, brown, or purple.

My mother says she has never
Written down her race on a form.
My father has always told me,
“To end racism, just crossbreed.”

My family's gotten used to
Not answering to this question.
I don't know about how others feel
About being asked this question.
About being asked who you are
And being told who you fit with.

I will never know what it's like
To have a straight, clean heritage.
To simply answer this question
With 'Hispanic' or 'Caucasian.'
Or what it's like to be pure-bred.
I would rather be called a mutt.