Brownies of the Southwest: Troop 704

Humanscape 62, 1970, by Melesio Casas Three years before I’d hear the word /beaner/ from the / white boys / who’d spit first in my broccoli, then in my hair, / my mother / dressed me each Wednesday in that / brown / sheath: I was seven. It’d be the only time I’d wear a sash — Miss / America, / she said. Twenty Miss / Americas, we made / kitsch from clothespins, pipe cleaners — our / brown / socks / banded and complicated / with orange tassels just below the / brown / / rosettes / of our knees, little / skulls / knocking together in our elementary / school / cafeteria. How we jumped the day / we heard / voices raising there instead of / at home, / when Tracy’s mom slapped our / troop / leader / and Tracy cried. And Tracy’s / mom was white / and only her / dad was brown / and Tracy was a little / prettier than the rest of us. / At the lunch tables, /white bitch/ stuck to our fingers like glue; /fucking Mexicans/ landed like glitter onto the sashes laid across our / small / hearts. / With Tracy, / we watched / manifest between us / a line, / risen from the tiled floor where / we shared / meals as tears clung to the eye-rims of my seven-year-old / compañeras. / Lorena chewed her nails till blood / bloomed / on her ring finger. Andrea peed quietly / on her brown knee / socks. None of us knew where to hide. This was not / home, / where / we could run / to the / broom / closet or to the / feet / of our big / brothers. /