I wear this white skin (I don’t know why)
like a cloak,
behind which I mask my insides.
Sometimes it warms me,
others it leaves me cold
like an outsider —
but never without options.
This same white skin so many fought
and have fought for,
and here I wear it —
bear it —
the weight of it having brought me
to the land of our origins.
Searching to make right
the wrongs of my ancestors,
not to impose my mentality but to LIVE
with it, stretch it,
bit by bit, diluting its hold.
My own penalty is to feel the weight of this white skin daily.
Daily I’m reminded I’m different,
daily incapable of being a stranger here,
daily of always having a way out, if needed.
But in some ways, despite all the weight,
all the eyes —
that’s still easier than feeling
a foreigner in a land
where I blend in.