The problem,
One that I keep coming back to,
In America,
Is one of Identity.

It's a thing that ebbs and flows,
With the coming and going,
Of whatever agenda is pushed.

Now, if I'm pulled over, or looked over by name, or dare I associate with color.

Then they'll **** me and my blackness.

Now, should I take it personally, or empathize within the box they put me.

Then they'll curse me for denying the whiteness.

In this tug of war, I write my own story.

Two races,
One mind,
But the spirit of millions.

I am my ancestors, black and white.
This is my perspective.
I'm taking it back.

where is my indian
is it in the way i don't use my palms as a medium to transport rice into the back of my mouth
is it in the way my face turns gloomy at the sight of spice and curry
is it in my skin color that isn't as brown as you need it to be
is it in my eyebrows which aren't as bushy as per your requirements

is it in the way my tongue twists awkwardly as i say happy diwali
is it in the way amma is the most fluent piece of tamil i speak
is it in the way i didn't know how to recite the words at my grandpas funeral
is it in the way i cannot, for the life of me, name you another tamil movie besides chandramukhi?

or

is it in the religious classes i took up until age 12
is it in the ramayana epic that i learnt, age 8
is it in the sanskrit bhajans i was made to sing, not knowing what they meant, age 10
is it in knowing that ganesh is the remover of obstacles,
brahma, vishnu, shiva - the creator, the preserver, the destroyer

is it in the eyeliner drawing a bindi in between my eyes when i
head to the temple, to present myself as indian

where is my indian
is it on a checklist, is there a passing mark?
where is my indian
please tell me,
because i am tired of feeling like a foreigner in my own skin

let the race
go on and
be won and
be lost
inevitable
fast
without me


I will be
playing
on the side
of the road
with the daisies
and the crickets
and the wild-growing
fennel
​

a fleeting whoosh
to the rushing
passerby
and they a whoosh
to me

​
as clouds
hang humid
and yearn to
speckle their
summer mist
a-top puffs of
breeze and
rosy cheeks
and
saplings

​
I will be
spending my
sunshine day
with face
upturned and
hair a-mess
and
eyes not
looking where
they're going


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

I am so much more than the color of my skin..

& with it being 2017.
Having seen 25 birthdays.
Marrying the most gorgeous woman whose skin color is different than mine.
& together creating a little girl who has such a mixture in her & is the epitome of everything that is holy.
I'm both ashamed & conscious that even though the world is better..
This better isn't even close to good enough.

0.1 millimeters.
Practically a sheet of paper difference.
We've allowed it to be cause for so much turmoil.
..when in truth, no one has more value than the other.
Because we all love.
We all hurt.
We all want a good life.
& the crazy thing is, it's possible.
But with all the animosity because "their skin isn't like ours."
Good will never fully come.
0.1 millimeters.
Practically a sheet of paper difference.
You take that away.
& I ask you.. what will you judge me on?
My character?
My failures?
My faith?
My drive?
..because I will never be a perfect human being.
But I will always be one who strives to be better.
& though my mistakes can be catastrophic.
My redemption will always be more.

So I have to say it.
For the strangers that **** over the difference.
For the families that show indifference with the spouse, but love the kid without prejudice.
For those I know, who disagree with ones choices in who they love because of that difference, so they make sure to never let anyone else make the same "bad choice" as long as they have a role to play.
& for myself, so that I never become apart of the problem.. so that my daughter can love & feel loved from all those around her.

..I am so much more than the color of my skin.