Identity Struggle
BY AYESHA NOOR
I may hate the question, “Where are you from?”
But I absolutely abhor the question, “Where are you really from?”
It's funny how one word can change the entire meaning of a sentence,
How it makes the sentence go from polite enquiry to a question loaded with judgement.
It's a question that makes me glad to be mistaken for that which I am not.
When I am assigned to a group of people to which I do not belong, I sigh in relief because I know I am safe from being treated like the scum beneath their shoes if only for a little while longer.
It's a question that makes me judge myself before others can judge me.
A question that makes me cover a cringe with a loud laugh.
A question that makes me have a quarter life crisis every time it’s asked.
A question that makes my palms sweat no matter how many times I rub them against my jeans
as I wait for my turn to introduce myself in the world’s most awkward icebreaker game.
My reaction to this question makes me wonder if the reason I’ve never really had friends from my country is because I’ve been taught to hate the blood in their veins and mine.
I wonder why it makes me proud to not have an accent that makes me sound like I am from there.
I wonder why I am glad when people can’t guess where I’m from and disappointed when they can.
Why does my heart sink when they get it right?
I wonder why I don’t care where others are from but I care so much about where I’m from.
One thing I don’t have to wonder about is whether or not it makes me sad that their hatred has deprived me of the chance to love a part of myself.
Have I internalized racism that much?
Does it make me a racist or just a girl with a very messed up version of an identity crisis?
It is one thing to have an identity crisis and another to have a crisis about whether or not you have a right to have an identity crisis.
Because I am what people consider a “pure blood” or “full blood.”
All of the strands of DNA in my veins belong to only one land,
Not two or three or four,
But my mind belongs to another
While my heart hasn’t found a place it likes to call home just yet.
But I have too much melanin in my skin for others to believe I am from the land my mind calls home.
And my mind is too white-washed for me to fit in in the place my ancestors lived and died.
They think it’s as easy as blood and epidermis;
I can assure you it’s not.
I may not have a sense of identity or home but I do have a sense of self.
I may not know which land or people I belong to, but I do know who I am or rather what I am.
I am strong.
I am loud.
I am passionate.
I am brave.
But, I’m not going to apologize for any of it.
I have spent too long apologizing for what I am and am not.
It’s time to start owning it.
I’m American, but I’m also Pakistani.
I shouldn’t have to pick one or another for I will be both as long as my heart still beats.
Better yet, I am just me.
Ayesha (@ayesha.v.noor) is a Dubai-based poet and spoken word artist who writes about topics she is passionate about. She is a mental health advocate, feminist and activist for those who are being marginalized by stigmas.