Mirada

I knew I was Mexican
by the way white people
looked at me.

If I walked across town
the police would stop me
and ask where I was going.

If I rode my bicycle
on the wrong sidewalk
old white ladies would cry rape.

If I went out
with a white girl
both sides of the tracks would frown.

I never had an Uncle Hank
only a Tio Fidencio
no cousin Phil only primo Pablo.

Today I know I’m Chicano
by the way the Mexicans
look at me.