Woman of Qolour (poem)

Woman of Qolour with a ‘Q’?

Queasy, uneasy, as I telephone mother;

“That girl I spend far too much time with? She’s more than a friend”

Queer. Like h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l? (whispers)

Reclaiming of an old word, taking back the once hurled slurs?

And that extra ‘U’?

Nationality, salient to intersectionality.

Up-bringing and bring-upping to create me,

Emancipate me from shackles otherwise inflicted if born a little further south,

if born a little darker-skinned, thicker-tongued, wider-hipped.

Fortunate, I’m told, to have escaped death-sentence for love,

Ellis Island resurrections and the inevitable demise into Dutch courage.

But tired of checking box ‘mixed other’ on inconsequential forms because I can only be this or that not this and that.

Ironic how they see everything as black and white – but me

because black and white creates murky-grey not a peach-brown patterned with sunshine freckles.

I’m scared of my identity.

Correction. You are scared of my identity.

You’re scared of all the letters I’ll add to already growing acronyms,

all the many different ways you out-privilege me,

how many more words I have deconstructed into infinitesimal pieces and pieced back together like algebra so as to remove them from your vocabulary

and deemed them no longer politically correct.

You’re scared of how many more revolutions I might begin,

how a claiming a rightful seat on that bus might lead to a seat in the Senate.

Woman of Qolour, Leader of the World.

 

 

 

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