Brown I Own

Wednesday, October 31, 1931 - He was born hard and feisty. Screamed so loud the nurse nearly dropped him. Good morning, Clay. Babe who fussed in his mom’s arms. He was a dark nut brown. Darker than the babe before. Grandpa Roy, a common law husband, waved his hand. “Not mine.” Grandma held him closer. “What does it matter? Color of skin. He’s yours. He’s mine.” She was a migrant farm worker. Anxious to leave the California hospital so she could make money in the fields. She placed him next to Uncle Smile. Ismael. They would always be united by her heart, womb, blood thicker than old viscous glass dripping like windows in some distant English manor.

Sunday, June 25, 1950 - He knew why they called them ‘wetbacks’. He worked in the hot fields, beside grandma, grandpa, Uncle Smile. Sometimes, if he was close to the weak roads, he heard them. White men in white trucks with gun racks. Wetbacks. He sweated. They all sweated. Picking crops, underpaid, while the white people in the factory got a union wage. Their backs turned to the road. Drenched shirts. Circles of wet. They sucked on saladitos - salt coated shriveled plums - to replenish the body that leached sodium from their brow dripping in sweat. The Korean war began. He read it in a newspaper by weak light in the one room house, with hung crucifixes, candles, an altar strangely Catholic and not. He knew his mother drizzled in Apache to the Catholic paraphernalia. It was strange. It was home. English dictionary, Bible, Moby Dick. Only books in the house. He had a whale to catch. Dark skin took a limb. In his head. Ahab with no boat. He limped to the Navy with Uncle Smile. Korea, here I come. He had no idea why he had to fight the yellow man. He was dark nut brown. No idea why white people yelled at him in the fields. War was ungodly. As ungodly as those white men in white trucks with gun racks. Thou shalt love thy neighbor. BOOM. You’re dead. He shot the yellow man. He looked at his skin. At least I’m not yellow.

Sunday, May 1, 1960 - Still sailing all the seas. He was a subman now. He was going to be career Navy. Uncle Smile already left. He put his time in. Survived a war. They met at a diner in Hollywood. Dad ordered eggs over easy. Glowing sun orbs surrounded by a penumbra of white folded protein. Potatoes with peppers, sourdough. He spoke to his brother in Spanish sprinkled with Apache. Iyą Ha'dishéí. El dia esta hermoso. After all, they were Mexican Apache. Waitress overheard. Tight curls, snug pink dress, buttons pulling near her chest. “We want none of your kind here.” Told manager. Two veterans got kicked out for being brown and speaking the devil’s language. Any language the staff didn’t understand. He would not forget.

Friday, December, 24, 1965 - He visited his mother in a TB hospital. Grandma Maria had been there for six months. He had brought her rose-scented soaps, an eau de toilette from Paris, calla lilies from a nearby grower. She was in good spirits. She coughed quite a bit. He had a mask on his face. “Oh, my son.” She grasped his hand. “You are my Jesus. I care not the color of your skin. You are strong. The light will burn bright for you.” Phlegm coated his hand. He scrubbed in the nurse's station. Merry Christmas. Something burned brightly in the night sky. Star of Bethlehem. He laughed. Only Jupiter. He marveled. “My last baby, I will share the marvel of brightness and the infinite through binoculars. She will be a sky gazer.”

Tuesday, April 22, 1969 - She was a waitress. Blonde. Four kids from some guy who was also Navy and gambled Navy pay so she couldn’t buy milk or diapers for his babies. Dad was on hiatus. Too long in a bullet-shaped sub. He said they had the best books, best food. But it wrung his soul. She was racist. Didn’t like blacks or Mexicans. Maybe Jews too. She was Scotch-Irish. Pale snow skin prone to flush and burn. But...love came swift. It choked her so she couldn’t breathe. They married not long after. She was ashamed of her weight. Wore black pants. Slimming. There were pictures. Now lost somewhere on this planet. She didn’t notice his dark skin. Only that he made her laugh.

Wednesday, December 18, 1974 - I was born. Late. She became Diabetic. I suckled on sugar that made me big and reluctant to leave the nectar womb. 11 pounds. Full head of dark hair. A giant amongst the tiny babies. Dad laughed. “She’s hard and feisty.”. Skin milky with a tinge of caramel. A Christmas treat. He was proud to bring me home in a Christmas stocking. I was his last. Kids with other women. Mom’s adopted kids. I was last. No more.

Sunday, April 10, 1983 - Week ago. Heart attack. He was digging in our garden outback. Rushed to the hospital. They cleared the clot. Sent him home. I had a premonition. Spent the day with him. Served him soup. He drank Tequila and beer. Smoked. I cleaned. Only eight. Wanted things to be nice for him. We shared beef jerky and sweettarts. Those were our snacks. I stayed by his side. Too afraid to leave him. That premonition. We played chess. Let me win. I slayed the king. No. “You are my king. Don’t leave.” He was already slipping away. I told him. “Ah, Apache has different stages of dying. You are dying too. Your life source is stronger. Now. Mine is already jettisoned to the cosmos. Don’t worry.” I cried. “Ya'íí.” Sun. “You are a spacewalker. Never quiet your tongue.” My skin? He laughed. “It is your story. Brown. Mexican, Apache, Scottish. Irish. A blend of your mom and me. It is perfect. Never be ashamed of the color or the lines that will eventually etch your face when I am long gone. Be strong like all your ancestors. Warriors all.” I slept next to him that night. But the death monster took him. I wailed. Tore my clothes. Cut my hair.

Friday, October 8, 1999 - Law School. My class was mostly white. Some black. No one with my brownness. Closest was a Peruvian and English girl. One Filipino. We came from the same city. Guy behind me. “I hate how brown people are taking over my country.” He was white. My skin felt hot. I turned. Strength of ancestors. “It’s not really your country. You took land from my ancestors. I won’t excuse my brown skin. Jump to your death.” Rattled for rest of class. Civil Procedure. Jurisdiction. Boundaries of dominion. Family stuck on the Res. The rest stuck by debt. Poverty on both sides. And I sit in an expensive school that didn't seem mine.

Friday, July 5, 2019 - Living in Phoenix. I am just brown. Somehow, I don’t like the color of my skin. Brown? Tan my man calls it. “You look nice. Like you were a castaway on an island standing in swirling sodium aqua water waiting to spear a fish or dive for a crab. Tan like Polynesian. Can you row a boat and follow the energized path of the hungry bird looking for land? Can you find an island?” No. My brown skin imparts no powers. Parents from Brawley and El Centro, California. Cousins to the Salton Sea. Farmers. Migrant and otherwise. Scottish grandpa also had a gas station. He stood silent in WWII when his Japanese farmworkers and gas pumpers were rounded up and put in camps.

Tuesday, December 1, 2020 - Does color matter? Oh, yes! Said every black person aggressively confronted by being a color. Ask Rayshard Brooks, Breonna Taylor, Daniel Prude, George Floyd, Atiana Jefferson, Stephen Clark...you think the list ends there? Google. Black will break your heart. Brown skin killed Apache ancestors and relocated hundreds of miles in fiery heat, little water. But we want their land, says white. Now on reservations. White man brought the booze, the depression. Who thrives on a reservation? Give me their names.

Sunday, May 9, 2021 - I am just brown. No. Not just. Proud brown. Blend of Mexican, Apache, Scottish, Irish. Dad was darker than his brother and mother. He never flinched at being dark even while kicked out of a restaurant for speaking another tongue. He laughed. Joked. He thrived. He loved my skin. Mom fretted over it. She knew. Brown is a challenge. Not as much of a challenge as black. I look in the mirror. My hair is streaking gray. My skin is still brown. No darker or lighter than ever before. It is my skin that tells the story. Not the burgeoning lines on my face. I stare in the mirror. The house in Phoenix where Apache ancestors live on ancestral lands. It is night and my man is asleep. Couldn’t sleep. Miss my dad. After all these years. Can hear the echo of his laugh. I am getting closer to the cosmos. I see white on palms and feet. Also, a smattering of freckles. So very Irish said mom’s sister. My story is dark brown, tan, and white. I am my skin. I am all that came before. There is no shame in brown. Give me a brown book and I will write you verses of beauty, horror, humor, and my skin. Give me a camera and I will sweep it across my skin. Give me a mirror and I will not flinch. My father gave me the cosmos, my ancestors - Apache, Mexican, Irish, Scotttish - gave me strength, politics demotes me, but I glow in the history of my skin. Brown. Just brown. Proud brown. I love all colors. But brown I own.