You know me, bruh...

On a few occasions, I'm reminded that I'm whitewashed. I am Americanized, no doubt, as I've lived in the US for my whole life. But I try to understand my Chicano heritage and being, although partially, a Mexican-American, must I have the mestizo skin color for people to believe me? Do I have to act like the beaner that most people stereotype when I mention my ethnicity, and they see I'm wearing hipster glasses or that I act like a hood rat from Detroit even though I'm obviously not black and I've lived in a suburb 15 minutes outside the city for the past 9 years? I was raised in a Mexican/Puerto Rican household, bouncing around from the urban to the suburban for the greater half of my life: am I not allowed to adopt the culture or the style or the vernacular or the behavior of the people that surrounded me for all those years, whether they were black or white, Hispanic or Arabic? I attended a Spanish-speaking school during the years that my brain most easily developed, like a big 'ol sponge, but am no longer fluent and barely conversational. Since I introduce myself as Hispanic, am I supposed know the language and be able to tutor all my friends and take their Spanish 201 placement tests for them? Or maybe I'm a hypocrite because I abuse my Spanish skills to rolls my R's when I pronounce my last name and say Spanish phrases to impress girls when they ask me to say something sexy? For all you French and German and Lebanese and Italian friends out there, do you know your native tongue? Or do you feel white, too, when you go to a restaurant and the waiter comes up with a thick accent from the country your ancestors are from and begins to describe to you the special of the day with such detail that it takes him back to the days when he was a wee-little lad on the sands of his motherland? What about when a close friend joked that I had a identity crisis because I'm a "whitewashed beaner who thinks he's black"? I suppose there is truth to that statement, but why can't I embrace it? Maybe I'm just theatrical and enjoy doing different voices and pretending to be different characters of people I've encountered throughout my life. Or maybe I'm just like an inside-out Oreo. Or, dare I say, maybe I'm cultured. I *have* drank a Cuban espresso in the streets of Cuba, guys. 

Flex Your Soul

Around the corner from my parent's tortilla shop, there was a small vacation bible school program that was held in a gymnasium. Pops had driven past it one summer morning with Gabe and I in the car and decided he'd rather have us spend that week at VBS instead of wasting it making forts out of tortilla boxes at Hacienda. Gabe and I cried pleading him not to sign us up. The image of my father standing outside his black Chevy Tahoe with two hands on my brother's legs, literally pulling him out as he held tightly onto the door handle for dear life – it makes me chuckle.

I've been an active churchgoer since my earliest days. I specifically recall the day I was baptized, attending Sunday School, and even going to Spanish speaking churches with my nanny. I've been raised in a Christian household all my life, ever since I was a lil' gangsta roaming the streets of Ferdinand with all my cousins in Southwest Detroit. I've always had an intimate connection with my faith. Prayer and attending church were simply routine. But my priorities started to get muddled as I got older.

My first workout program was called Mark Rippetoe's Starting Strength. It focused on compound movements targeting the core muscles. Exercises like squats, bench press, dead lifts, good mornings. My seventh grade outlook on life turned to this: if I look good, I'll get girls. Classic Michael. So I began lifting weights. Not only was I on a training program, but I was also playing football, basketball, and running track. This continued until Senior year of high school, sans the basketball, then the football.

High school was a time where I really focused a lot on how I looked on the outside – not my style, but my body. Typical of any high schooler, of course. One friend in particular got me motivated into fitness, lifting and dieting properly. Before I knew it, I was in the weight room three to four times a week, working out with my closest friends. It was a healthy lifestyle for each of us and we developed our own little workout culture that winter in tenth grade. Of course, it felt good knowing my hard work was paying off. But something kept tugging at me. I was putting all my focus toward my physical strength so I'd look good in a mirror, but what about my spiritual strength? I'm on all these supplements to make my muscles bigger, but I'm not supplementing my spirit with fasting and prayer and attending church? Where are the compound exercises for my spirit?

“Don't count on your warhorse to give you victory – for all its strength, it cannot save you. But the Lord watches over those who fear him, those who rely on his unfailing love... We depend on the Lord alone to save us. Only he can help us, protecting us like a shield.” (Psalms 33:16-18, 20)

I highlighted this Psalm sometime in middle school when the pressure of working out was at its highest, and it came back to me one day a few years later. Rereading the passage, I thought of the good 'ol Sunday School days and the story of David and Goliath. David was a man of God, and although his physical stature wasn't impressive, his spiritual strength was off the charts. This gave him power over his enemy, the massive Goliath, and he freakin' killed the guy with one stone. So it hit me: I need to be as strong on the inside as I feel I am on the outside.

I came up with this idea that everyone has two looks.

One look is visible to the naked eye: that would be how you actually look. Are you aesthetically pleasing? I mean, are you pretty? Do you have freckles? Maybe blonde hair, blue eyes, typical Cali babe? Or you're a green-eyed brunette? Are your muscles huge? Nice arms, chest, bootie? Handsome? Do you dress well? Maintain superb hygiene? Are your pearly whites pearly white? Is your hair gelled? 

The other look is only visible to those who are wise enough to see it: that's the look of spiritual attractiveness, or to put it in simple terms, your “personality”. Do you talk behind your friends' backs? Are you the type to hold grudges? Do you pray? Do you lie or manipulate? Maybe even read the Bible? Go to church? Meditate?

Do you focus on what's on the inside as much as what's on the outside?

Back in the day, since I wasn't confident in how mean I looked, I'd always ask myself: “could I take him?” Okay, so maybe I couldn't win in a fight against the first string running back of the Varsity squad. Or even the second string. But the third string? Well, maybe not him either. But spiritually? That actually became a dilemma. If our souls were to go at war with each other, would mine have a chance at winning?

That sounds ridiculous, right? But the thing is, that mentality wasn't a vehicle to measure myself against others and then pride myself on it. Rather, it was a way to measure myself against where I was at that moment in time, and the steps I must take to become wiser. It's a constant reminder that says, “Hey, your muscles don't need to be big in order to be yolked in the eyes of Jesus.” Goodness, this sounds so weird, but it's true! Think about it. Does it matter to you how the Creator sees you – for who you really are, and not who you pretend to be – or what people think you are? Take Jesus out of the question for a second. Are you as honest with yourself as you make yourself out to be to others? I mean, no dude likes to think, “I'm a tool,” but indeed people may see that guy as a tool; no girl likes to think, “I'm a b***h,” but others may definitely see her that way. So where is the disconnection between what you think your are and what others perceive you to be?

What if you think you're ugly, or fat, or pimply (embrace it!), or too skinny – but other people tell you you're fine? Are they just lying? I don't think so. I suggest to keep those people close. Man, the people who see the best in you regardless of what you see – now that's the type of person you need to cling onto, learn from, and eventually become. Disregard the imperfections in a person's physicality and see that person for who he or she really is. Sometimes that person may just be mean. Well, so be it. Can't change them. That's probably why I never was close friends with the self proclaimed popular kids in high school. They were all good looking, I'll give them that much, but I never thought too highly of them because they were all mean! Oh well, nobody's perfect. I'm often guilty of having a superficial outlook. I'm trying to work on it, 'cause I know in the reverse situation, I'd probably get the short end of that stick.

I can only hope that if you “keep it one-hundred”, then people will really see you the way you want them to. Regardless, haters gonna hate, potatoes gonna potate, 'n' aliigators gonna alligate. You'll always have people who don't like you. I mean, I wouldn't go as far as saying, “I love my h8rs,” simply because I don't really think anyone likes it when a person hates you. They may not care, but that's different.

Back to the point. I have learned that being physically strong and chiseled without taking the time to become spiritually strong and ripped is pointless. The good thing is that one usually leads to the other, and regardless of which comes first, it's a step in the right direction toward a healthy life and a happy one, too. Get your spiritual muscles pumping! Take the time out of your day – when you get up, before you go to bed – to pray and give thanks. Being honest is refreshing, and being genuine will give you chances to flex that beautiful soul of yours.