It is Uncomfortable to say I am white passing.
To identify myself with my oppressors when already, I see them in my mirror,
(I am an olive tree painted white, and it is poison),
When to pass I have to hide from the sun,
Keep my hair straight and my smiles small,
And discard the clothes I wear that connect me with my people.
But I am white passing.
Discomfort in the mirror, in the soul, and in my family does not erase my privilege,
Or the thin layer of safety that I have
That they do not.
(How long would I last once they were taken—a day? a week? a month? How long, when I am them, before the paint was chipped
Or I found myself falling
Without their support?)
I am white passing.
It is Uncomfortable
To reiterate how much I look like someone I am not,
And redraw the lines between me
And my family.
But I am white passing,
Afforded privilege by my status.
I am trying very hard
To remember that.
People look at me and see me Differently
From my mother, my sister, my family.
I am white passing,
And I need