Graduation Blues

I’m lucky to have graduated within the four year deadline set on by white wealthy assholes who can afford to. With a double major none the less I’m lucky ass hell. Lucky I’m still alive after four years of academic trauma. Lucky I didn’t drop out because of the lack of funding. Lucky as fuck that I could graduate and hold three jobs. That the pressure didn’t consume me. Or that the anger didn’t almost kill me. Lucky I can handle stress. That my bones could withstand the hurt. 
So I didn’t care when everyone congratulated me or when my parents threw me a party to celebrate.  I didn’t care when I got my degree in the mail. Actually since I took my last class I haven’t been able to breathe. The air in my lungs chokes me uncontrollably. I often cry without tears pouring only my heart halts abruptly. And I can’t be happy about the lack of something.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so ____ (undocumented, gay, of color) and I could just live. But somehow I’ve become a manifestation of all this luck. A million additions of Latina, brown, undocumented, and queer. A quick statistic. Nothing but a bunch of identities. So when they tell me that I’m the pride of them. A reason for them to be celebrated I don’t feel lucky. I feel tired. Exhausted of having so much yet sitting here with nothing. Rejections still awaiting me despite all this luck. Xenophobic emails in my inbox warning me that luck isn’t enough. But I’m supposed to be happy and patient. Waiting for a yes from some white person who’s probably ganna underpay me. Despite knowing I could do their job better than them. And I am pretty lucky to be congratulated for all my accomplishments aren’t I?