Sunday, March 2, 2014

A letter to the racist human in Japan Town in San Francisco.

"Go back to your country!"
And with that, she drove away.

If I am able to,
if I do succeed,
in explaining to you
that I am home, that
I am in my own country;
Will you stop telling me to
go back to my country?

How do I begin explaining
that I am home?
Home: a place you call your own
A place that you can count on
You know it will be there
at the end of an exhausting day
A place you can be all you are
or nothing, if you desire
and create your own universe of acceptability
and norms surpassing questionability

Where do I begin explaining
that I am home?
Home: a feeling of safety
A feeling that tells you it is going to be okay
at the end of a horrid day
A feeling warmed by the comfort of homemade soup
garnished with the unconditionality of the truth
that you are safe, free from judgement
and hate

I'm struggling to find the right words
to let you know I belong
to inform you that I have the right -
No, that I have earned the right -
to belong
to be here, in this country
and that it doesn't need to matter
that I don't talk like you,
don't look like you,
or nod my head differently.

This is my country, too.

1 comment:

  1. Your poem says it all. It's the sentiment that any of us who have ever been told we weren't like the majority has felt. (For me it's not my ethnicity, but rather my religion.)

    You are home. This IS YOUR country too.


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