Boricua in Alabama Land Part 1

They hear me speak Spanish and automatically assume that I am Mexican. They look down their nose at me as if I don't belong, as if I crossed the border illegally, as if I have no right to be married to my Black husband and raise my mixed children. They talk down to me as if I don't have a Bachelors degree in Business and two years of law school under my belt. All they see is Mexican. I get pulled over and they tell me that they are not even sure if I am supposed to be here, that my social security number is from someplace called Puerto Rico and it may not even be real. The look in my eyes ask the question that is burning to jump out, "are you serious?" If this was up north I wouldn't even have encountered this. I would walk out the door and every other person I saw shared my heritage, knew my culture. Every Puerto Rican Parade we would gather and shut the block down. Waving our mini PR flags in the air and showing the world how proud we were to be who we are. I KNOW who I am. I am one hundred percent, full blooded, I am Island bred, Sancocho fed Puerto Rican. The blood that flows through my veins is that of my Taino, Spaniard and African ancestors. I am a melting pot of kidnapped slave, raped Taino women, and domineering Spaniards. I switch between my native Spanish and my not so native English with such an ease that they call it Spanglish. So why would this be something I should be ashamed of?