What is True

I will not be forced into anything.
I am an exasperatingly stubborn person.
As such, I can't stand to be told to do something
I don't have a mind to do- or something I have, either.
It doesn't fit my character, this trait,
And I don't see- what's the cause?

It cannot be that I am sure of myself,
For sure I am surely not.
It cannot be a strong independence,
As I hate nothing more than being alone.
It cannot be a moral conviction,
For I am stung by the guilt of my noncompliance.

It may, perhaps, be in my blood, as my father says.
Although my complexion fails to show,
The blood of the Portuguesa churns under my skin,
The blood of the Chamusco family,
Rich, hard-headed, and
Exasperatingly stubborn,
If what my father says is true.
I believe it.
In my bones I feel that land,
That land of conquest,
That land of determination.

My sister has the olive skin, the almond eyes,
And I? The set, unflinching ferocity,
The selfish compulsion to fight
Against what I am told, against what is plain.
How can I apologize for what is in my flesh?
Without justification, I will stand
Because that is who I am.