Every time I leave my bedroom
I feel like I have to reassert who I am.
My skin is white,
But my history is far from pure white.
It’s filled with every colour under the sun.
But it all means nothing
When they can’t see the rainbow.
Every single day when I open my mouth,
To speak the language of my mother,
The first language I ever breathed life into,
The one I’ve known my whole life,
The one whose blood runs through my veins…
I get looks of shock.
I am questioned.
HOW COULD THIS BE?
ARE YOU A LUK-KREUNG?
Half the person I should be?
HOW COULD SHE SPEAK THAI?
HOW COULD SHE BE THAI?
And when I speak English…
WHAT KIND OF ACCENT IS THAT?
Maybe it’s an
Or an accent-less accent.
Though there is a faint hint of British in it.
But then I’m told it’s got an American twang
Or that it’s filled with
Apparently who I am dangles
So dangerously in my accent.
It makes me want to
Stop talking altogether.
So I retreat to the bedroom
Where I can just be myself.