How will we ever unite?

How will we ever unite
if I find myself annoyed at wealthy whites?
Right when I think I've assimilated enough;
that I've become quadrilingual,
fluent in the languages of white middle class America,
listening to Sufjan Stevens and Coldplay.
Just when I think I'm able to relate almost fully and find many friends from this demographic,
I find myself mad.

I'm mad because she always wants to help me. Because she always thinks she's right. Because she calls me "cute" when I cook differently. But little do you know that I consider your food bland and find myself longing for that adobo and sofrito. Little do you know that I don't know how to use your fancy kitchen gadgets because I never had them; because I had to use knives instead of can openers, and napkins instead of coffee filters. Nevertheless, your one summer cooking expertise can't top mami's platanos, beans and rice in the kitchen. And maybe your palet wouldn't appreciate it and maybe you would have the audacity to give her "advice" and to "help" her, but she doesn't need your help and neither do I.

I'm mad because when I say: "Damn, I want juice." I get a reply: "You need to buy yourself some juice." Hhhhmmm....why didn't I think of that?
Little do you know that you're advice is based on a couple of assumptions: The assumption that I can get myself to the Supermarket from this suburban college I am in. And the assumption that I have money for food right now.
And you, who have a car and enough money (which your parents send you) ask me to get you groceries everytime I go when I catch a ride with someone once every two weeks. Do you know that I lived off of those oatmeal packets in the kitchen for a week because I had no one to take me to the supermarket?

And you, who don't pick up your plates ever, have the audacity to ask me if all of the plates in the sink are mine. Why the assumption? Yet, you overlook the fact that I vaccum every week and wash the mugs that are lying around.

And I'm mad because I just came back from being with people who know me and who I can let my hair go with, and now I have to come back to you. And we don't understand each other. And we don't get each other. And you are so far away from my context and I am so far away from yours. And you exoticise my language and my music and my country and LOVE going on missions trips there to "help" us. And I love being with my people and singing and rapping and beat boxing and....living. And when I offer to help you, you refuse it, because of course, I can't possibly help you.

I'm tired of you trying to help me. I don't need your help.
I don't need your help beyond the help I get from my community. I don't need your help beyond the help I get from my mother. You cannot help me because you don't understand me.


And I'm mad because I wish I didn't feel this way. I wish you all didn't annoy me. I wish I didn't have to racialize this, and I could just see it as difference in experience. I'm mad because I wish I could see you as God's child and nothing else, who's abundance has made you broken and unaware. And I'm mad because I miss my people, my music, my culture when I should just love to be in community. But the contrast. The contrast serves as a reminder of the fact that we are worlds apart; that although I can philosophize with you all day I don't belong here. I'm mad that there are not more Latino professors. I'm mad that there are not more professors from an urban background. I'm mad that I don't see more of myself represented.