21 Or To Any One

Sat, 05/06/2017 - 15:40 -- Shsg

21 Or To Any One

 

There are 21 parts to my life.

One

Is May 15th, 1992.

 

Two

The number of countries I have lived in,

But subtract one,

And that is the number of places that I have ever called home.

 

Three,

Just one of the many words I had trouble pronouncing,

Because growing up,

It was always pronounced ‘tree’.

The ‘h’ discarded like my identity.

 

Which brings me to four,

The number of languages my tongue has memorized,

But not without being scolded countless times,

That this,

Is America,

And here we speak American.

That my friend,

Is not a language,

I have been able to learn.

 

Five,

The number of times that I have let my accent slip,

From behind the chain-linked,

Electrically charged barrier,

That I have erected around it.

 

Six,

Is the point where I had to begin dropping U’s,

Like forgotten love letters,

Accumulating in dusty shoeboxes,

Shoved underneath my bed.

 

Seven,

The point where in this country,

I was no longer know by a name,

But instead,

By a series of numbers,

A country of origin,

And the colour of my skin.

 

Eight,

A blur of island memories,

The sound of palm trees in the wind,

The chill of water as I climb a waterfall.

 

Nine,

Filled with captivating colours,

And savory scents.

 

While ten,

Ten is the thick accents that float through the air like whispers.

 

Eleven

Is December 19th, 2003.

 

Twelve,

Immigrant,

Immigrant problem.

 

Thirteen,

Permanent resident.

 

Fourteen,

I hate this place.

Go back to where you came from.

 

Fifteen,

I want to go home.

 

Sixteen,

Terrorist.

 

Seventeen,

Is high school graduate,

College freshman.

 

Eighteen,

Still a child.

 

Nineteen,

Is May 16th, 2011.

 

Twenty,

Is flowers on the grave of my nationality and identity.

 

A child,

Who died too young,

I hope you cry,

I hope you,

Scream.

This is your fault.

 

Twenty-one,

On paper I am an American citizen.

I bought that right with money,

But don’t worry if I could return it I would.

Saying I am a part of this,

Hurts me more that it does you.

 

Twenty-one,

I still no longer have a name.

 

Twenty-one,

I never wanted to be,

Here.

This is a place where dreams come to die.

 

Twenty-one,

My only dream is to have a name.

 

Seven,

The point where in this country,

I was no longer know by a name,

But instead,

By a series of numbers,

A country of origin,

And the colour of my skin

 

To any-one,

My name is not a number,

But is the product of the chemical reaction between my mother’s and father’s name.

My name is not a place of origin,

But is the a flag of a nation

My name is not the colour of my skin,

But is the cover to the book that is the autobiography of my life.

 

Twenty-one,

I still no longer have a name,

I do not belong here.

 

Twenty-one,

I,

Am,

Moving.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Our world

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