The Eurasian Girl’s Burden

Poetry

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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.

Always questioned.

WHY?
HOW?
HOW COULD THIS BE?
ARE YOU A LUK-KREUNG?
A “HALF-CHILD”?

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?

 

Well.
Maybe it’s an
International accent.
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
Australian slangs.
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.

One thought on “The Eurasian Girl’s Burden

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