it would be a lie if i said i didn’t feel special when I heard a white person say my name.

~

how am i expected to be myself when i can’t get over the fact that i speak different?

~

i look at myself in the mirror, an ordinary brown girl and then look around my campus, one million ( of course i exaggerate) beautiful, accomplished girls and i shrink. i cant think and i cant write.

~

i see my room-mate with her statue of Ganesha, and her saying ‘I wish I was him.’ i see her friend laying on the bed, holding the god of my religion in her hand. I almost think , ‘you girls need to stop. this is not how he is supposed to be treated. we keep him in temples.’ then i stop. doesn’t religion transcend these boundaries so conveniently created by us? and who am i to say anything, when i haven’t even thought of my own god in the longest time? who am i ?

~

all i wanted was a few white friends and i didnt know it was that difficult.

~

every time you try to talk like me, you don’t belittle me, but yourself. i am the one who brings myself to shame for i pay silence as the price of fitting in with your kind.

~

you talk about traveling from one city to another, i stay mum for i am in an entirely different continent away from my loved ones, but again, who am i?

~

every time i sit in the bus and look around, a black man, a white girl, me, a brown girl, a latino, i feel grateful, for we all are one, in the same bus, under the time constraint set forth by our driver, never mind his race.

~

i look at you, a middle-eastern, craving for the love of his parents and i feel bad. “how do you do it?” i question him, then i realize i do it too.

~

people ask me, “do you miss home?” and i say “no” for it is true. for all the racism, my home is me.

~

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