You shoot me because you are scared.

Draped in a uniform of authority

Armed with a gun and reinforcements

Power in a twitch of an index finger;

You are scared of me.

You choose the bullet over backup.

I sit strapped in the passenger seat;

A child’s innocence shattering in the back.

Your gun is drawn,

But you are scared of me.

Even after the bullets fly,

I terrify you.

In you, I evoke a rush of terrible emotions,

Even before I can remove the safety belt.

These straps weren’t designed

To protect from this kind of impact.

From me, you soothe your conscience

Retreating to a narrative that restores your virtue.

I bleed out in the car,

Yet you curse me.

I bear the brunt of your bullets

And your blame.

You have not yet realized,

That you will not be punished.

Forgetting that your badge of honor

Will shield you from accountability.

You will not be asked  

To take responsibility for a black life

You are a man sworn to an oath

To protect and serve.

To protect you from you fear

And to serve a reminder

Of my place in society.

Femininity is NOT weakness

When Hillary Clinton was running for office, some commented on her fashion, or lack thereof. Hillary dressed in predominantly dark pants suits. She was trying to do everything she could to make America forget that she is a woman. Questions, comments, and queries regarding fashion were never directed to her male competitors.

Showing one’s femininity is considered a weakness that is not suitable for high powered positions. America was distracted by her lack of femininity while at the same time undermining her capability as a strong leader because her womanly proclivities. I understand her dilemma. I dare say that all women experience this double standard. Unfortunately, there are few prominent females that can serve as examples, and they always endure the harshest criticisms.

Respect is earned by working hard, but it’s naïve to think that is the only quality that is noticed. I always feel like I need to be twice as good to gain the respect men receive. Therefore, it seemed to reason, that the way to mitigate this double standard, was to dull the apparent differences between me and my male counterparts. I, just as Hillary Clinton, fell in to the same gender-neutral-clothes-wearing trap.   I used to have a visceral reaction to all things ‘girly’ or pink. It personified all of the things that I was trying to evade. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever owned or wore anything pink until I was in my mid-twenties.

Femininity is, of course, more than just what you wear. Unfortunately, it is often limited to intangible descriptions such as maternal instincts, tender-hearted, soft, etc. The strength in a woman’s power is in its subtleties that are often overlooked and underappreciated. It doesn’t have the same in-your-face aggressiveness which sometimes overpowers the testosterone-filled workplace.  It is more than a just complement to machismo that creates harmony.  But the very nature of its elusive qualities makes it hard to perceive in its own right, let alone appreciate it.

Over the past two years, I’ve had a change of heart of how I identify with femininity. When I look around me, I see girls unconsciously being forced to make the same decision – embrace their femininity or to be taken seriously.  It breaks my heart to see their path being chosen without them understanding its implications.

I choose both.  I no longer try to hide the fact that I’m a woman. (Let’s be serious, I wasn’t fooling anybody and attempting to do so was only harming myself.)  I realized if I don’t make a stand to change how femininity is perceived, then who will? So, I choose to wear pink while boxing; I choose to wear skirts when I’m leading meetings. I choose to let myself be me. Now when I pass girls on the streets, I give them a knowing smile and hope they find their way. There is strength in femininity, and we should feel empowered by that, not ashamed. 

A Letter to the Racially Curious Stranger

Dear Curious Homogeneous Stranger,

I know my mixed features and ambiguously noncommittal brown skin intrigue you. I can see your eyes running inventory over my features, trying to figure me out.  An astute observer can recognize fairly quickly that I don’t check just one box on census forms. Either way, we invariably play a sometimes-too-lengthy game of ‘what-are-you?-No-I-mean-where-are-you-from?-No- I-mean-what-is-your-origin?’

My ethnicity will be compared to any place home to vaguely brown-skinned people. I can see the curiosity building as you list off all of the countries you know. For good measure, you may even switch into a different language as if you might trick me into revealing my true identity.

I see the bewildered and slightly disappointed expression when you discover the truth. “But you don’t look Ethiopian”. I see you are trying to reconcile my face with your previous experiences with mixed race people, but I assure I do not look like the other mixed raced girl that you randomly met once at a coffee shop, nor am I related to her. Still unconvinced, you prod me into persuading you about the legitimacy of my ethnicity, demanding a family tree history, complete with names, hometowns, and professions. I do this in vain because I still won’t fit in your narrow conception of race. Please note that your curiosity is no longer mildly amusing but offensive despite your good or innocent intentions. Furthermore, please understand that the world is not always black and white, even though, ironically, I am.

Sincerely,

Racially Ambiguous

Threads Lay Bare

The day I have been dreading for the past four years has finally come. I waited too long. I knew this day was coming, and yet I did nothing to change its course.

My grandmother died last weekend. A woman that I feel indescribably connected to but only met once. She is the bearer of my sorted family secrets.  She is a woman who could melt me with a smile.  She represents life in a world of different circumstances. My existence is directly dependent on the decisions she made so many years ago. Decisions that I have never had the chance to understand.

Shrouded in a mysterious sequence of events, my mom was raised in the care of her uncle. Fortunately for her, he subsequently became successful, enabling my mother a world of opportunities that would have been unattainable otherwise. I understand her (and everyone’s, for that matter) admiration of him.  He was incredibly successful because of his visionary entrepreneurial spirit and diligent work ethic. Even now he serves as an inspiration for his grandchildren that never had the opportunity to meet him.  He was idolized by everyone, but especially by my mother. She was daddy’s girl. Without him, my mother would have never left Gondar. Without him, she would have never met my father in the United States. Without him, I would cease to exist. I am profoundly aware that I owe everything to him, in a very literal sense.

All the same, I feel like the silvery threads holding the legitimacy of my heritage together are fraying at the edges, bearing too much weight for such delicate strands. As I try to repair the damage, I carefully avoid the splitting ends, afraid that even the slightest tug may destroy the whole fabric.

I first met my biological grandmother in 2010, a year after my mother died. There was something beautifully touching and piercingly sad about the discovery of my lost grandmother hidden in a small town tucked away in the highlands of Ethiopia. Only aware of her existence a few years prior, I was surprised to see photos tracking the progression of my childhood lining her walls amongst those of her other grandchildren. Unable to understand her words, I understood her eyes. She was overcome with emotion. Never expecting to see us (my sister and myself) in person, she was grateful to meet her lost American grandchildren. Overwhelmed by the situation, I didn’t fully appreciate the magnitude of the visit, unaware that it would change the course of my life.

I felt as if something was coming together. Unaware of my impending identity search, I felt at ease in her presence. Smiling and unable to take her eyes off of me, she told me that I looked like my mother, a compliment that stripped at fresh wounds and nearly brought me to tears. Words that I would never forget.

Sipping on hot tea, my eyes poured over every inch of her small-overcrowded living room. I wanted to remember every detail: every picture, every smell, and every crack in the wall. In silence, I tried to intellectually and emotionally process her existence.  I wasn’t ready to leave her that afternoon. I just discovered a world that I never knew existed and hadn’t yet figured out where I fit in. Although I was reluctant to go, I didn’t know then that it would be my first, and only, opportunity to meet her.

While I am incredibly grateful for my family, I can’t help but feel like something is missing. I feel like I am missing a link that grounds me somewhere, that makes me belong somewhere. I am hovering by thin threads trying to find where gravity will ground me. And the questions keep coming: How was my mother given over to her uncle? What happened all of those years ago? How did my mother feel when she found out?

Upon our first meeting, I was inspired. I vowed to come back and see my grandmother. I would learn Amharic and get to know her, understand her story as a means to understanding mine. I needed to hear her perspective on how she was separated from my mother, an event that forever complicated and confused my identity and existence.  Meeting her solidified my need to go back to discover my roots.

In 2012, I moved to Ethiopia and began learning Amharic. Going back to Gondar was the goal, the payoff to all of the self-doubt, hard work, risks, and uncertainties. The closer I moved towards my goal the more I was terrified of finding out the truth. If she rejected my mother, then was she in effect rejecting me? Already insecure about my legitimacy as an Ethiopian, I postponed visiting Gondar. I waited. Excuses are plentiful when you want them. My Amharic isn’t advanced enough. I’m too busy. I’ll go after the rainy season. It’s too expensive. In my timidity, I waited, hoping for the perfect opportunity to fall in my lap.

But perfection doesn’t exist, and I waited too long. Now she is gone, buried in those same mountains with all of the stories that I never heard. Conversely, I think about all of the stories I will never tell her. Just as I will never know her, she will never know me. I waited too long, and all the while I feel those thin threads splitting around me.