Dawn Rani Jadfa

I was born here

But I am not from here. I go there

And I am too modern too different I have changed I am not an original. I can’t speak my own language enough to blend in over there, But my skin isn’t clean enough here to be another face in the crowd.

I am the sore thumb. But there are so many of us and we are all so so sore.

Sore in ways even I am not sore: they are more sore than them but they are not as sore as those. We are all so so sore, and we are so so tired of being sore. I am so so tired.

A notification pings within me. A reminder. A new dawn. I am not living the worst. I live.

Others did not.

I am not living the worst. All I receive are rare comments odd looks cruse assumptions. They received shouts of bruises and dark purple bigotry. I am not living the worst. My mother’s beautiful silver tongue condemned. My father; who spoke good, who spoke little, who told me stories I wish were truth and ruthless truths I begged not to be.

They lived worse. They did not live the worst. I do not live the worst.

They came here for better.

Was it better?

Is this better?

Are we better?

Us denim-wearing, saak-tasting, english-speaking, prayer-giving, sari-wrapping, pizza-cooking, rain-despising, over-sleeping, air-breathing sore thumbs.

We live the better life they so tiresomely sought out. The life they fought for bled for for

Where some see darkness and dystopia, they would have seen the dawn’s light.