MY ARM HAIR IS NOT UP FOR DEBATE. IT IS THICK AND DARK LIKE MY HISTORY.
I HOPE IT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE AND CRUMPLE YOUR BROW. TELL ME AGAIN,
WHO IS EXOTIC NOW? AND TAKE THAT OFF YOUR FOREHEAD.
DON’T TELL ME THAT MY HAIR LOOKS BETTER STRAIGHT OR TO SMILE MORE.
THEY ASK WHERE I COME FROM THEN DISMISS MY FIRST ANSWER LIKE I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND THE QUESTION. LIKE I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND THE DIRECTION OF THE CONVERSATION. I SPEAK OF HERTFORSHIRE WITH CONFIDENCE YET THEY WANT TO HEAR MIGRATION PATHS AND CLASS.
I SEE THEIR SWATCH CARD.
CATCH HARSH GLIMPSES OF IT THROUGH THEIR SLURS.
BUT NOT AS MUCH AS OUR WORDS. WE DO NOT CRAVE THEIR VALIDITY. THERE IS NOTHING TO HIDE. My skin is drenched in humility as much as it is pride.
I come from ground cinnamon, turmeric and chai. From Swahili and Cymru. Gujarati and grace.
But they demand one place.
One definitive location. One single race.
Please, allow me to serve this pint, sir.
Now, how does that taste?