AnonymousWhiteGirl

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Inside a smokeless New York bar,
I sip my drink
And watch her
Watching me
pretend not to notice.
And I could, I decide,
be a Third World victim
to her First World Jesus
An anonymous queerarabmuslimwoman
for an anonymouswhitegirl
with anonymous white guilt
and a penchant for dramatic intervention.
“It’s ok if you need more time”, she says,
“it must be hard being queer where you’re
from”.
I could, at this point,
suppress my giggle and my desire
to smack her upside the head,
Maybe let my eyes melt a little
in ribbons of brown and black,
trailing off as the image of the oppressive
homeland
she imagines
superimposes itself onto my pupils.
Perhaps a hard, confirmatory stare into the
ground
before I let her take me home
and initiate me into a world of
freedom, democracy, and liberty for all
(hiding, I presume, between cream-colored
legs).
I could do all this quite easily
and pretend not to get a kick out of it.
But I won’t, and
I could say it’s because I come from
where the cedar trees grow,
strong, rooted, and willful.
I could say it’s because I come from
where Jesus wasn’t fair-skinned and blue-eyed,
and where freedom doesn’t come in massive,
consumable portions.
I could say all this quite easily,
but as I get up to walk away
from my anonymouswhitegirl,
I glance sideways at someone else
and think to myself:
Sure, I’ll be a victim for some of that.

Tags: poetry