Foreign in Familiar Places
What can I say?
They do not comprehend...
How my identity is not defined by the colour of my skin.
Still they assume I am my nationality.
They can not see the colours inside of me.
They only see the outside, a pale complected caucasian.
But inside my heart is tinted many colours
Green, orange, black and red, only a trace of white.
My country ‘tis of thee and only thee.
These people do not know a man who has injured himself to aid his pleas for money.
These people do not hear tales of torment, torture and tarsiers.
Google images and documentaries annihilate reality.
They will never know the country’s actuality.
At meet ups, in class, around town
With people who look like me
I am a broken record
I can not call this land my home.
Blank stares, punctuate the end of conversation.
Unaware of my other homes, they can not know who I really am.
I’m too white to be extrinsic, yet to extrinsic to be truly white.
I’m an enigma, only fitting in where I least belong.
My experiences are priceless secrets that can not be decoded,
Often best kept to myself.
My life is peerless and perplexing
I shall never truly belong anywhere on this earth
Home is where the heart is; mine is with the Lord.
I am a citizen of heaven.
Loraine Wilson
ATCK
May 13, 2013
Wow. Just wow.
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