August 15, 2017

A loud murmur of voices eminates
From the small, wooden building Granmom takes me to
Heads of dyed, thinning hair
Pale, wrinkled skin
Pink, plastered mouths meet me
As I file into a pew, my gaze rests on an
Old, white women dressed in her Sunday best
She gives me an incredulous eyebrow raise
Instead of what I expected; a smile
Her sparse grey brows had to flash, as if trying to force the unusual image of me past her glassy, blue eyes
"Where are you from?" is her first question before anything else
I can tell "Brooklyn" isn't the answer she's looking for
"Where are you from?" my a**
Might as well say, "why are you different from us?"
Everyone around me opens a leather blue book filled with yellowed pages
Their pink, plastered mouths echo the words
In monochromatic synchronicity
I try to say the words but I feel my throat get tight, as if I'm saying a lie
As if I'm spinning, spinning from the world I know is mine
I feel my hand reach up to my Hindi necklace, feeling the characters, making sure it's still there
Making sure everyone can see it
Making sure I remember that even though I'm standing here with my hands clasped, I'm not a part of this
I'm not part of the
Murmurs which supposedly make me
Granmom introduce me to the pastor and he looks me up and down
"And who are you?" He finally says, befuddled, begrudgingly shaking my hand
And as much as I haven't felt part of this, I realize that having my Granmom's white hand in mine doesn't overcompensate for the fact that I'm
"A little something else in you."
I guess I should feel sad but I'm glad
I'm glad it's obvious that I don't belong to the
Heads of dyed, thinning hair
Pale, wrinkled skin
Pink, plastered mouths in that
Stark, white room
Echoing mindlessly from the yellow pages
In monochromatic synchronicity.

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