I Am Not Invisible

She interviews for the same job,

the nicely dressed Black woman.

You hire me instead.

You feel good.

Equal Opportunity.

You sleep in your bed, dreaming dreams,

while my dream is to find a job — any job.

I am a feel-good number.

You don’t look at me.

As if turning away erases who I am.

I need insurance.

Here, fill out a form.

Where do I place my X?

My half existence doesn’t fit

as the shame drags me down.

The boxes tell me

everyone wishes I would go away.

I hand you the form.

You erase me with your stare,

not caring who I am.

You’re not sure where I’m from.

Because, somehow, that matters to you.

You cautiously approach me

with your curiosity.

Your lips speak as my smile keeps you on guard.

My half existence allows me some privilege

but not enough to climb the ladder.

I do the work. You give me a check.

I put food on my table.

I stay quiet and you don’t care who I am.

Until one day, your curiosity gets the best of you.

But your curiosity is not kind

and ignorance is beyond bliss.

Your words stumble and strike,

as your truth spits in my face.

So I squirm into my other half,

thinking someone wants to know

that I am kind and smart.

Oh, how naive I am.

That you might care who I am.

I walk through K’town

Wanting naengmyun or bibimpap.

The stares of fear explode in my soul.

What is it that repulses you?

I continue to smile and be friendly.

I hear your souls cry.

Your looks of disgust as you peer at me,

the geomdung-i —mixed race nigger.

So you turn away,

hoping to hide your fear of who I am.

My God says I am Beloved.

You call me trash.

My half existence pains you.

But the DNA tells a different story.

Still you look away, erasing my existence from your mind.

The shame reminds you of war,

the war that ravaged your soul.

Bringing you to new suffering.

And I remind you of the old,

the suffering that proves who I am.

Now you follow me in your stores,

Lock the front door as I approach.

Tell me you don't have time,

Screaming for me to go away

with hollowed stares of fear.

You push me to the outside

with words that try to erase

and actions that crush my spirit.

My body is so tired.

I question who I am.

I ask my mother.

Who am I?!

Her tears are not new.

I am a bad mother, she says.

I just want you to be safe.

Her tears pour and drip like paint.

She says, I made a mistake.

No! I scream.

My existence is proof of their sins.

Don't let them tell you who I am.

The dignity of oppression,

clothes in nice words spoken right to my face,

while keeping a heavy foot on my back.

I am not your token.

Or an invisible pat on your back.

Your unconfessed sins come full circle,

as your children produce

mixed race children.

Now.

Now, you're curious who I am.

My father said,

there are two strikes against you.

What do you mean?

You are a minority and a female.

Rise up, my child.

You must learn to use your voice.

Speak your truth.

For the wind of Love will carry you.

Stand up! Use your voice.

You know who you are!

He carried my depression in his soul

and my grief on his back.

Each time, helping me stand up.

Use your voice, he said,

use your voice.

I try.

Each time, I try

to stand up,

to use my voice.

To tell you who I am.

You tell me to sit down

with your sideways smile and

glances at the clock.

You are not interested,

as I sit patiently.

You want to date me.

Your mother is surprised.

She says, at least she’s not Black.

Your words are not kind.

As your curiosity tries to erase who I am.

Enough!

I am not your curiosity.

You call two months after the breakup.

I am surprised.

Was my no not enough?

You try to lure me back.

I tell you I am done.

I am not your token.

I am not your confusion.

I am not your curiosity.

Now you want to know who I am.