When was the last time you felt truly heard?
Being biracial is like having a moth fluttering in my mind and learning to train that moth
Being biracial is like having a moth fluttering in my mind and learning to train that moth. The United States may not feel so united right now because, in the righteous night before dawn, perhaps we are learning to tame countless moths who want to be free from the systems and the labels and the bubbles that shackle our spirits. Our binary society of right and wrong, of good and evil, craves certainty and ease. Collectively, we are fighting erasure and fractured identity. We have been for a long time. It’s frustratingly beautiful.
This is what I’m seeing from my small seat. I am an Iranian American in Pennsylvania. I am white passing, an identity that feels perpetually transient. I am of the crystals of my native Arkansas and the turquoise of my mother’s Middle East. I love the flat simple land of the midwest and the cool blue eyes of my father. I dance with the paisley scarves flown from Iran and seek refuge in my mom’s honey brown eyes.
And as the world begs to be born, I’m hopeful that those lines on the map will continue to gently braid and burn.
