What is she?

The first time I was asked, “What are you mixed with?”

I might have been in grade school
I don’t remember the answer I gave
But I’ve always been a dreamer
So I probably made the answer up
I can do that you know?
Ah…what a gift
Who knew it would become a permanent fixture
The question(s)…
But how do you give an answer that has no frame of reference?
I was a kid outside my jurisdiction
Alien…foreign…edge-dweller
I learned to adapt
To live outside the margins
Where there is only open space
Lonely space…uniqueness is
Besides I’ve searched, looked in between the lines
I ain’t there, mon cher
It always begins with a particular look
I can read the puzzle in their eyes
Is she…no maybe she isn’t?
I smile
I often watch their politeness turn to angst
The uncomfortable language their body exposes
And the cunningly bold, make an attempt to stuff me in a box
So “isn’t it cool we have a Black President now?” they blurt out of nowhere
How strange but awkwardly amusing at the same time
They gasp, they wait for a response
Their ears listening for my dialect to offer a helpful hint
A subtle guide in the right direction
But I don’t write between the lines,
Because I can
“Umm sure”, no dialect there, just hints of West LA
They’re back at square one
"Maybe she isn’t”
I don’t know why it’s so hard to just say hello
I’m friendly
But it’s the categories that drive us
We need the boxes more than the hellos
That damn coffin of a box
I’ll never use it…I swear allegiance to its end
Besides make believe is much more fun
I dwell there…I belong everywhere and nowhere
I am what I am

Shak
100.