Olive Green Skin

Looking through the mirror at myself,

I see a blob of olive green and round,

golden glasses near the top,

resting pertly under an unkempt

dollop of dark brown.

“It looks more like black to me.”

I have to disagree with you.

No one knows this dark brown

dollop better than I do.

“Let me show you how pale I am.”

She puts her arm next to mine

like I’m a paint swatch

at Home Depot. But why compare

apple to oranges? Is it because

this orange has the face of an apple?

Is it because you need to know

where the orange is from?

Montana. I’m from Montana,

just like you. My family has been here

for seven generations, including me.

Your family moved here from

California when you were

nine years old. But I’m the outsider.

Seven generations of pale families,

and my mom went and had two kids

with an Egyptian. The man who

started and ruined our lives.

I was always the darker-skinned

kid in school. I heard nothing

about my art or my music.

No one cared. I was only

a couscous stain on a blank canvas.

The world decided to make me

feel guilty about the color

of my skin. And now that

the world has changed its mind,

it expects me to, all the sudden,

be proud of my color? I can’t.

I’m still confused as to whether

I’m black or white. In a world

full of color, I’d like to finally

know what I really am.