White Devils

CW: Racism, family trauma, mental health

"¡Ay, Dios Mio! Mi hijo es un Diablo."

I could never have imagined being in this situation. My own mother? Surely she would support me, no? Surely she would be proud of me for doing something great. Surely she would at least sit idly by and pretend to understand my words as I ramble on about my passions. Smile and nod, mother. That's all you had to do.

It soon became clear to me that my town was not supportive. Only a single soul didn't condemn me or beat me for my ideas. Funnily enough, it was the oldest man in the town who could actually understand why I followed the path I did.

When the white men came to us, they tried to show us their machines. My mother yelled at them, calling them Diablos Blancos, White Devils. Those White Devils had magic, nothing else, according to her. They had tried to bring us a plague of evil and vileness, tried to infect us and destroy our souls. That's what my mother said.

But when I saw their cars, their clocks, their screens...I was fascinated. They sped off, chased away by swaths of townspeople who simply couldn't see their vision. Any gadget or gizmo that might've been left behind was buried. Covered in dirt, with a wooden pole sticking out of the ground to remind everyone where it was. The pole was my savior. It was meant to keep people away from the darkness that tried to seep through our soil and reach our minds. But it helped me to find them.

In America, I am renowned. One of the greatest geniuses to ever live. But here, in this small primitive town, I was but a troubled child. I am not a genius because I discovered anything new, no. Everything I figured out had been discovered before. But I had nothing except a small sack in which I carried to Don Juan's home on the hill a collection of devices. There, I took them apart. And I found everything that made them work. I even improved them, making the clocks smaller and the lighters more simple. On my own, I came to the conclusion that simpler machines were better, because less could go wrong.

Everything I innovated was common knowledge in America. But I did not know of that land. Don Juan was the only one who knew anything about the world outside the town. And he allowed me to invent, to create things, and to learn. My mother thought he was cleansing me, teaching me the ways of the spirits and repeating constantly that it was my duty to satisfy the spirits and cleanse my soul so I could join my family in the afterlife.

That's another thing I hated about my mother. Over and over again, she would say the same things, as if hearing it more would truly make a difference. I've learned now that this is quite literally the definition of insanity. What a crazy little lady she was. She told me that the Diablos Blancos were not to be trusted. After they visited, half the town fell ill. She used this as evidence; No concept of foreign disease existed here.

For my fifteenth birthday, Don Juan let me leave. My mother trusted him now, and on this day she believed he was teaching me of the importance of age. Who could be better suited to teach me such a subject, but the oldest man in the town? Ever since I spent my time with him, I no longer spoke of devilish concepts around my mother. I did not need to, because I had for the day, and someone had listened. Don Juan gave me a choice; Stay here, give up on my dreams and lead a traditional adulthood, or leave for America. He told me tales of this place, this land of freedom. And so I left. He warned that I should never return, for he would be dead and everybody else would hate me. My secret could no longer be a secret, if I left. I don't understand why he couldn't lie to them still, tell them that something else had happened, but it didn't matter to me then. I didn't, and still don't, care about what they think of me.

When I arrived in America, the white men, who I thought were the kind geniuses I had seen before, hated me. Because my skin was brown, I was an outcast. I didn't fit in at home, and I didn't fit in here. And I hated it so much, that I went three whole days without sleeping creating an engine better than anything before it. I sold it over the phone, putting on my best white accent, and by the time they saw my skin, the deal was already done. I was rich, and only then did the whites accept me. But at least they accepted me after my success.

And now, I will go against Juan's wishes. I'm going back to my town, and I'm taking back what should have been mine. This soil was as good as any other for growing, but that was only my secondary goal. I needed to show them all that I did not need them or their respect. They tried to suffocate a genius, now I will suffocate them.

"¡Ay, Dios Mio! Mi hijo es un Diablo."

My mother, now too old to walk, thinks that I am a devil. What a fitting end to this town, the boy they stifled industrializing the land they thought holy. A few ran. Most of them prayed, begged, or yelled. No spirits came to save them. My mother fell ill again, this time by my own hand. I had brought disease here again, but now she was older and could not fight it off. I could have helped her with medical technology, but I'm sure she didn't want to live being saved by a devil using devilish things. Let her spirits have mercy upon her soul.