Diaspora Dysphoria

Look I write something! I’m actually trying to perform this for the One World show my school has every year. I just auditioned it today, so let’s hope for the best <3

Still have to work of some of it, but most of it is here.

Diaspora

Dysphoria

I

am a child of diaspora.

Last

name I have no ties to,

First

name my mother heard on Sesame Street,

Names

give me no solace.

My

mama’s mama was a product of love soured 

By

a nationwide obsession with race and colour:

A

story of a baby too brown

For

anyone but her mother to love.

A

story that comes back ‘round to me when they say,

‘Psst,

t’ick sauce wit’ de nice hair.’

They

call me dougla.

By

the time I outgrew my obsession with bindis and tikas

And

my one true dream to be bollywood dancer,

Classmates

told me I was too proper to be black.

They

call me dougla.

But

ever so often I throw around mulatto

And

try and forget the oppression behind it.

Two

generations later, I have no ties to coco panyol

Other

than passing mention.

The

only name I have for this,

The

only name I have for me,

Is

confused.

At

home they say, ‘dougla, what yuh mix wit’?’

But

here they say black is black.

‘Are

you ashamed?’

Am I ashamed?

Not

of the blackness

Or

the whiteness

Or

the Indian-ness

Or

the Syrian-ness

Or

the whatever-else-it-have-ness.

Just

confused. 

Because

things like race have always baffled me.

Because

race implies someone must win.

Because

when I look in the mirror

And

I see the roundness of my nose,

The

curliness of my hair,

The

sharpness of my cheeks

And

the brownness of my skin,

I

am neither ashamed nor confused;

just

euphoric.

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