White Noise.

White Noise.

It’s how I was born.

It’s how I was raised.

My hair,

My skin,

My face.

My voice,

My kin,

My race.

Everything about me screams

White superiority, white privilege

Entraps my history

But pause—

Dig deeper and you will see

me as unique from my family

tree’s roots run deep

fertilized and planted by seas of red.

Red. Red. Crimson. Red.

“Who are you and from where do you hail?”

If you want to truly know

slow down the train in your mind

before you derail.

My blood comes from England, Ireland

and Scotland, too.

John of Stapleford sailed with his son

to encounter a world afresh and anew

“All the super white countries.”
I hang my head and describe to my peers

While they laugh at my paleness,

I smile through my tears.

In college you’d think

I’d have understood by now

that I am made of white ink

that my coloring is that of snow

I was born white, I am white, and I will always be white.

So why is this white girl

sharing poetic prose with those

who experience authentic problems?

But that’s just it.

I contain guilt for the white-washed stain.

I feel guilty for having such guilt

I should be grateful, thankful, and fine.

And I am, that can’t be denied.

But there’s so much to find

beneath the bland color,

a history defined that is

drenched in the dying and crying colors

of people, cultures, and friends.

Volumes of history pieced brilliantly

with vivacious colors of mosaic art

but a thick layer of suffocation was poured at the start

The editors have amply applied

white paint to the pages

now stifling the vibrancy beneath.

As the paint settled, few tenacious streaks




And persist

While, overall, we see by lack of color

who edited the pages, who signed the cover.

My life’s story is a page of this big, white book

A story struggling to appear

But this page never seems to change.

It’s the same white story

On the same white page

In the same white book.

But I’ve noticed when the ink

Glides across the persistent veins of color,

My story appears, bright and clear—

I refuse to be the monotony

My story will break through

the surface with bursts of color.

I scrape off the dried clots of paint

Suffocating the life below

And my story comes alive

In a harmonious display

Of color and life.

A story without need or cause of strife.

One that doesn’t suppress or overtake

The masterpiece below, but instead

Makes each brushstroke, each line

Of red, yellow, black, brown, divine.

And when the page is then consumed

With fresh colors, with new hues

Through the chaotic creativity,

Is birthed something unique,

What is brought forth?

Well, it’s me.


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