mi Rebeldía, an Ode
I wrapped my legs around my dad’s bike to reach the other peddle — parked right outside the front steps of my apartment building. My home was surrounded by large houses with shutters, groomed lawns, and cheesy garden gnomes. My dad parked his bike and radiated his excitement. He was ready-to-go. One foot rested on a step, while he adjusts my pink helmet. His bike was grey with black accents and he always bragged, “Es de 24 cambios.” As if to say, he drove me in the newest Lexus model. He had another black sponge on one of the bars which became my seat on my dad’s vehicle.
We were always late; I was a deep sleeper; He was too. Nonetheless, there has never been a point in time in my life where my dad didn’t perform rituals before leaving. Three checks on the locks. Seven taps on the stove handles. And two kisses on the forehead. Y una bendición in between. I waited patiently by the steps while he finished.
He pedaled so fast, the wind blowing through my long black hair. When we arrived — out of breath he would jokingly pant like a dog. He grabbed my palm and fingers and gestured to touch his pounding heart. He always wanted recognition for his efforts. Well deserved nonetheless.
As I got older I also got taller. I no longer could fit in the space on his bike. He would ride along with me to school. At times we would see our neighbors and their kids, my classmates, pull out of their driveway and speed past us as my father pedaled harder and harder to get me to school on time. I was always different than the rest — always non-conforming. For me, it just meant more play time.
We would ride alongside my school’s playground as my classmates uniformly waited to go inside. They would point, and shout my name. I use to think they would cheer. At least that’s what my dad would make me think. However, the same feelings followed me. In high school, I would quickly walk past the commons — where all the students gathered in groups to gossip in between classes. Every clique had their spot. Everyone had their safe zone. I, on the other hand, would stare off into the hallway and keep walking.
I’ve created a home for my difference. A home for all the glory and weakness that accompany me. A home for my vulnerability. An acceptance. An acceptance for the life that I was given. A gratitude for it as well. An acceptance for mi latinidad que por mucho tiempo nunca fue honrado. An acceptance for my bilingualism — my duality. An acceptance for my rapid thoughts and hypervigilant anxiety. An acceptance que soy indocumentada y a veces me da miedo. An acceptance that I no longer have to be afraid — afraid to be me.
