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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