Identity

‘Who are you?’ ‘What are you?’ ‘Where are you from?’

People expect the answer they want. Name. Ethnicity. Nationality. They want what’s painless what’s facile what they see what they expect the anticipated answers in their heads a single word for inherently complex questions.

I want to respond with silence, with a glare, with a scream, with a fist. with the hardships of my ancestors, with the richness of my childhood, with the names of all my family and why each of them matters, with all the pain of their lives and the complexity of their existence, by telling them not to box me into a small answer that will keep them from ever truly knowing me, ever understanding who I am. to lecture them on trying to define me, on asking the questions that are clearly loaded with these stupid shallow responses I refuse to give!

My manners kick in, ‘Name’ ‘Ethnicity’ ‘Nationality’ They

smile and nod. knew the answers. filled in the blanks. They miss the pain behind my eyes, and as they turn, they miss my tears fall.

They will never know me. I will never tell, I will ask. ‘Who are you?’ ‘What are you?’ ‘Where are you from?’