I’ve always loved poetry, it was a form of self-expression for me at a very young age. I remember really relating to Emily Dickenson’s poem, I’m a nobody. I related to it in the 5th grade so it was an innocent feeling, not a teenage angst feeling about not being seen. I just knew I was different. I only had to look around and see that I didn’t look like anyone around me. So the poem spoke to me, I felt that there was something to be said about being a “nobody” instead of a dreary somebody. I had an undercurrent of flavor that only another “nobody” could relate to.
Let’s flash forward to college, that amazing time of not knowing what the hell I’m doing but I was going to explore and declare my form of self expression. I attended a big university and found myself now a small fish in a big pond. Race took on a different form for me. First, I was called by the admissions department and was told I had to choose a race ( I selected two on my application because I am two), and was told my application would be discarded and I had to choose one. They asked what race my father was and I was now checked as black. Therefore, I was enrolled in the black kids orientation class (True) The white kids learned about the campus and the library, I learned about not squandering my money and campus rape (also true). I think the program was coming from a good place but it missed the mark.
This put me in a very new place mentally, my multiracial experience at that time was not being enough of one race, so I went from not being white enough to not being black enough. I share this with you to give you the context of the poem I wrote in my journal soon after college to express what I was feeling…
I never thought I wanted to read my
words out loud,
I don’t know if I could bear the
face of the crowd
Eye balling me suspiciously.
Don’t worry my darker sisters I don’t
want your guy,
Do you think I listen when he
tells me the lie
That he likes cream in his coffee?
For my lighter sisters do I intimidate
with my slang
I’ve used phat and dope and I’ve never been in a gang
But I’ve seen some on T.V.
The worlds inquiries grow tiresome
To me
“What are you?” or “What do you claim
To be?”
And I’ve run out of answers.
What is it about me that intrigues you?
I was born of a man and a woman too.
Does it matter their race?
Is it the blue eyes or the slightly
Wider nose?
Is it the baby pictures with the
Blonde afros
That has you stumped?
You were called a n****r or
A hon**y-so
I was called a zebra or
An oreo
I wasn’t exempt from your teasing.
Mullato, bi-racial, mixed you
Give me a name;
Try to fit me into a category
It’s still the same
& I’ll still just be me.
I hate to check the box other.
No, I don’t want to specify.
I do eat other foods
Then those that are fried.
I can’t wear gap jeans because the butt
Is too tight.
I don’t use Iman products because
My skin is too light.
I’ve read Terry McMillian and since
I’m quite frail
I worry more about what I inhale
Instead of trying to exhale.
My words are a tiny glimpse
Into my whole life
I will be a Mother, Sister, Daughter
Aunt, Niece & Wife…. Someday
Take a second to look at my face
I’m not White, Black, Yellow or Red-I’m just a tiny piece of our own human race*
Natasha Kavanagh 2000
*disclaimer, this is a 20 year old poem from when I was in my spoken word phase**
Ok, I showed you mine, now you show me yours. How do you express how you feel about who you are? How you are perceived? What is your outlet?
We are on the Census 