letting people walk across me
catching the supposed
insider's glimpse
of my experience.
leaving
--the bridge called my back--
torn with imprints
of impatient stilettos
and burkenstocks
alongside the rashes
and boils
that were bubbling up in my skin
seaking
seething
seeping
up out and thru me
in scars-- no in slashes, that would not heal.
i began.
rather than being helpful
and telling people
well my father is from india and my mother is irish and englishandgerman but herfamily'sbeenherefor years andi'mfromcal--
i would just say
i am american.
and they would say
no, where are you originally from
and i would say
california.
and for the few
who weren't deterred
i would offer the history of my ancestry
in detail.
to take up their time
because to know that
is to know the history of people
whose shoulders i stand on
and
that
is
no
casual
history.
that is my history
the history of each baby step to where i am today
of feet shuffled across dusty floors
swept with a short broom and a hunched back
of bindis and old black-and-white photographs of rigid couples
and the bengali my father still struggles to speak
because he came here when he was eight
and, as the older members of my family still tease him about,
he still speaks it like an eight year old
because he came here in 1950
and had to assimilate to survive
becoming white to thrive in this culture.
wading into it up to his thighs
where he met my white mother
and married a dialogue
in three
girl
children.
who would grow up
and find it
*thankfully*
powerful
to fit in everywhere
even though we knew
we fit in no where too.
because our family had money
which was enough for white people
but our skin showed heritage
which glimmered we might have a story worth listening to
but most of all
*innocently*
we grew to find that we were loved.
and that brown people
across the globe
could find their faces
*amazingly*
in our own
once upon a time...