A girl in my class sits next to me with a last name that holds as a dagger to my throat reminding me of a society I’ll never belong to.
You see, In a town of three thousand, it is quite clear to figure out who does not belong,
My high school career has been a game of, “Where’s Waldo?” with a flaming arrow pointing directly at my red and white striped sweater.
I struggle to get by but my ancestors pull at my ankles as I try to get ahead in the race.
My name like a lonely echo down these timid halls bouncing back at me like it doesn’t want to be received.
As I stare at my college application with the feeling of the mouse in my hand getting more stiff I feel my heritage breathing down my neck as I skim the options.
Am I of hispanic heritage?
I click no.
What race are you?
I ponder over the word Caucasian but it doesn’t feel right.
I look down at the color of my skin and I see what everyone else sees,
But every fiber in my being is screaming “no” in my native tongue.
I know I cannot complain because I am not a minority but the few relatives I have in this world are saying otherwise.
Caucasian does not tell the college of my dreams that my first language was Polish,
Caucasian can not describe the hardships my parents felt escaping a torn land,
Caucasian does not show the pride I have for my nation and
Caucasian to me is so much more than white.
If we are to base merit on things other than the color of our skins then I should be lined up with my colored brothers and sisters and given a voice to prevent my past from being forgotten.
Because I am not only Caucasian,
But I click it anyways and move on.