Not

I am not that stolen term Pinoy,
Not that tin saber
That is rattled as clumsily
As an inner city vocabulary.

I am not that apish gawker
Lamenting over papaya soap
And the danger it poses
To nut-brown skin

That same hypocrite
Who does not think twice
Before coloring hair
Or masking speech
With inflections
Of another “oppressed” race

Nor am I that scavenging vulture
Picking only at the tribal past
While looking with arrogance
At the post colonial realm

I do not treat family recipes
Like cheap whores
To be stripped down and
Cruelly manipulated
Into anemic cuts of
Bland flesh in pale sauce

I do not scar my skin
With geometric suns
To prove my legitimacy
Or pollute my sight line
With half-truths
That bear no relevance
To the kaleidoscope
Of my history.

I belong to what I was
And what I will be
Whether damaged or
dysfunctional
I stand sublime
Among squat mongrels
Too busy snapping
Mindlessly at each other
To see that they are
Masterless curs
Spreading parvo
And baseless filth.

I am not them.

I am Filipino.