Feeling
Why do we deny ourselves pain?
Rage is a figment of our imagination
The idea of taking an old brown wooden chair
and bash it towards our oppressors' backs seems like a dream
in which one day, I can take a deep breath without my arms and my legs twitching
the idea that the people who have called me a faggot, sand nigger, disgusting, and terrorist
the people who have told my mom to neglect her Arabic tongue and have tried to put her in her place
To lay down on the cold, blue, concrete floor drenched in their blood
But Rage is something only few can access
Mom and I are nothing, but similar in other facets
We both have been told to keep our chins up, back straight, and always smile
even when your body is too numb to have the lips stretched out into a smile
We both don't have a choice
At times the only times I get to see the real her is when she calls her mother in Egypt
She misses her Spiced Fava Beans, her homemade bread, her willingness to love everyone
That is the glimpse of my mother's realness
Because often times we are taught to ignore ourselves so that our bodies can be available at the convenience of rich white women
My mother saw a glimpse of the real me when I came home one day from swim practice
I was 15, Brown, chubby, black curly hair, and confused from head to toe
That Thursday, the kids were especially mean to me
they have yelled, terrorist, fag, disgusting, ugly, fat ass
but, they kept grabbing my chest and whipping me with wet beach towels
In ways, I felt sorry for the other kids because when a few of them grabbed my chubby, brown, hairy chest,
I think they wanted something more than to make fun of my body weight
When my mom picked me up from school, I held the D-shaped formation smile on my lips until I locked myself in my room,
Tears started flooding from my eyes
I reached the point of screaming
My mom pretended that she could not hear me,
When I came downstairs, she saw in my eyes that I was in pain
She did not say anything,
But for dinner, she made creamy, bright yellow Kraft Mac n Cheese, which is my favorite
That moment I think she saw me
Today, I don't know what to do if I showed my realness to my mother
It may destroy her and me
But I take it hour by hour
Rage is a figment of our imagination
The idea of taking an old brown wooden chair
and bash it towards our oppressors' backs seems like a dream
in which one day, I can take a deep breath without my arms and my legs twitching
the idea that the people who have called me a faggot, sand nigger, disgusting, and terrorist
the people who have told my mom to neglect her Arabic tongue and have tried to put her in her place
To lay down on the cold, blue, concrete floor drenched in their blood
But Rage is something only few can access
Mom and I are nothing, but similar in other facets
We both have been told to keep our chins up, back straight, and always smile
even when your body is too numb to have the lips stretched out into a smile
We both don't have a choice
At times the only times I get to see the real her is when she calls her mother in Egypt
She misses her Spiced Fava Beans, her homemade bread, her willingness to love everyone
That is the glimpse of my mother's realness
Because often times we are taught to ignore ourselves so that our bodies can be available at the convenience of rich white women
My mother saw a glimpse of the real me when I came home one day from swim practice
I was 15, Brown, chubby, black curly hair, and confused from head to toe
That Thursday, the kids were especially mean to me
they have yelled, terrorist, fag, disgusting, ugly, fat ass
but, they kept grabbing my chest and whipping me with wet beach towels
In ways, I felt sorry for the other kids because when a few of them grabbed my chubby, brown, hairy chest,
I think they wanted something more than to make fun of my body weight
When my mom picked me up from school, I held the D-shaped formation smile on my lips until I locked myself in my room,
Tears started flooding from my eyes
I reached the point of screaming
My mom pretended that she could not hear me,
When I came downstairs, she saw in my eyes that I was in pain
She did not say anything,
But for dinner, she made creamy, bright yellow Kraft Mac n Cheese, which is my favorite
That moment I think she saw me
Today, I don't know what to do if I showed my realness to my mother
It may destroy her and me
But I take it hour by hour
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