I am a mix of cultures, languages and traditions,
none of them definitions.
My accent so thick,
people get sick
My disease is picking a side
because I am not purified,
my bones and blood
dragged through the mud,
because I don't fit in a box or a square,
made for perfect hair and skin care.
I am sick of the questions and suggestions,
the constant reassurance that I am not like you,
just here to teach you a lesson about world view,
or to fill your diversity spot,
so you don't have to give us a second thought.
A never ending game of “Can you pronounce this?”
as they laugh, drenched in never ending bliss.
“Not from here” labeled on me,
as they asked me why I flee,
never wanting to hear
that I was born right here.
I wonder if people need to listen to me speak or if my look is enough,
to call out my bluff,
that I am hiding under a mask,
afraid you will ask.
My brain juggles three languages faster
than you can call me a disaster,
and although I am always mumbling,
over my own words.
of what you would call,
reasons to put up a wall.
Why can't we be united?
Because I would be delighted
to open up my arms,
to not set off any alarms,
and just say yes,
and clean up this mess,
to show our ancestors
why we are protesters.