What’s It Like to Be White?

To have the choice to ignore the world’s injustices,
because they don’t touch you
because they benefit you.

“If knowing the truth makes me sad, then I don’t want to be sad,” he said.
“It’s not like you’ll get deported. You were born here,” she said.

Yes, it’s that easy.
As if we haven’t seen citizens, born and raised,
ripped from their homes, deported
for looking “too brown”.

I stand next to a white man,
and they say we look no different.

Because they don’t see color

But I don’t see myself in him,
and I know for damn sure
he’s never lived my life.

His skin, pale
smooth and unmarked, like polished ivory,
untouched by sun, by soil, by struggle.
Mine, olive…deepening in the heat,
marked by the sun’s touch, by history, by life.

His eyes, bright green, flecked with gold,
Mine, dark as the bark of a tree
Deep-rooted,
holding the stories of generations in their shadows.

My hair, black, thick, unruly
His, golden
light, weightless, slipping through fingers

like silk spun from something untouchable.

But I used to pick at my skin,
hoping to shed the brown,
to become white, to become lighter,
the way everyone told me I was supposed to be.
Dyed my hair, bleached strands became brittle,
because I didn’t want to be brown anymore.
Didn’t want to be called a wetback, an immigrant.
As if being a child made me guilty of something.
Felt shame for speaking my native tongue,
swallowing my words so they wouldn’t hear my roots.

But no matter how hard I tried,
I would n e v e r  be white.

And now, now

they say we look the same,

because she doesn’t see color.