Soon after the Atlanta murders, Bay Area resident Michelle Oshima Burke penned this poem out of her grief for Asian women everywhere. – Editors
Why is it
that the shape of my eyes
or the color of my skin
would grant you permission
to take what is not yours,
to steal my dignity,
to destroy my trust,
to make me question my worth
and curse the day
that I was born in this form
that I cannot escape?
Who are you
that you think your color
and your gender
and your culture
gives you the right
to decide that
the laws that guide
decent behavior
toward little girls
no longer apply
when it comes to me?
Where can I go
and who will listen,
and not point the finger,
or make assumptions,
or question the truth
that with every stolen touch,
obscene whisper, and threatening leer
yet another piece
of my divinely given personhood
was taken away?
How can I not hate,
or see through dark lenses,
or carry this large chip,
on my angry shoulders,
needing to prove myself
as worthy of respect,
or check each day
that the clothes I choose to wear
won’t be the cause
for you to lose control yet again?
What did I do
on that day, every day
that triggered your hunger
for flesh like mine?
Was it the way I looked down,
trying to avoid your eyes
hoping to be invisible,
fading into the background,
whispering under my breath
“Don’t see me, don’t see me…?”
Or how I hunched my shoulders
hoping you wouldn’t notice
that I was indeed female,
working extra hard at my job
hoping that someone, anyone
would come into the room
to interrupt the inevitable;
praying for a witness
to say, “It’s not you, it’s him.”
Who told you the lie
that I really do love
when you back me into a corner
and tell me what you want to do,
or enjoy feeling like
one of the appetizers on the menu,
or a candy bar hidden in your desk drawer
to be consumed in secret
and then discarded in the trash
like an empty wrapper
until tomorrow when the cycle continues?
Did you know
that time does not heal all wounds
but multiplies the hurt
like reverse compounded interest
in my bankrupt soul,
so that even now
I believe that I must have
brought this shame upon myself
because those lies must be true?
How do I fight for myself and others
when the insidious threat
continues to shape shift
through movies and carefully chosen
rhetoric that deflects and
defends the perpetrator,
who in the eyes of the world
just couldn’t help himself
acting out his racist fears,
justifying the million other offenses
against little girls and women
who happen to look like me?
© 3/22/21 Michelle Oshima Burke
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