Residue in the Melting Pot

They say I look Puerto Rican

When my hair is long, dark, and curly,

But when it’s long and straight

I “gotta be Italian from Sicily.”

When it’s blonde, they say

I’m probably French Or an Austrian

“With East European blood;”

But when it’s short, black, and wavy,

I might be mixed or ‘redboned.’

They say I could be Native American,

Thanks to my high cheekbones;

or Indian due to my large, dusky eyes.

They say my freckles, however, throw them off entirely.

When they ask me my name,

I say “Najwa.”

“That’s an unusual name, where are you from?”

“Rocky Mount, North Carolina.”

“I mean before that.”

I pause and cock my head.

“My mother?”

They are unsatisfied with my answers;

Their faces contort accusingly.

“Where are your parents from then?”

“They’re Palestinian.”

“Oh really? I would have never thought you were Arab

if it wasn’t for your name.”

“I guess I’m sneaky like that.”

“It must be interesting to be Arab in these times.”

“How so?”

They pause.

“Well you don’t look Arab, so you have that going for you.”

I freeze.

“Just change your name and you’re set!”

“Am I?”

Even the Arabs aren’t sure what to do with me. I don’t look

Arab to them either, not until I tell them my name.