Shyamashree Acharya

Is it really                                                the home of the brave 
And the land of the free.                     Because I feel neither
And the onus is on me.                         I felt I escaped 
the judgment                                          when I left my home
for “greener pastures.”                           Only to be caught 
between both worlds.                              Both are mine
                                     But I am not theirs. 

One will forever judge me                      by my color.
Calling me names,                                  Brownie, curry, Pakistani,
Did you have electricity                         back home?
How dare you take my job?                   Do you speak Indian?
Oh, the smell when you come.            You know we love India.
That Indian restaurant on the corner. Their food, we love it. 
Our gardener is Indian, too.                 Oh, wait, no, he is Mexican. 
You all look the same,                            with a fake laugh, you say.
Because you know,
                            Your melanin is deeper than mine.

I have learnt                                   not to call it 
Racism,                                           but ignorance. 
Of the world                                 that exists around them,
Of the people who                       are working hard
for a better life.                            Of sacrifices we make 
To give our kids                           the things we didn't have.
Of the memories                         we left behind.
To start afresh                              in a new place. 
I tell my kids                               those people just need to read 
and have imagination.              Because we grew up believing 
                                     Narnia exists.

The home back                  has disowned me
because I question           everything. 
The laws                             or the lack of it
The politics,                        the misogyny, 
The society,                          the patriarchy.
You don't stay here            anymore,
Haven't you renounced     who you were?
Don’t tell us                         it happened
                Because you were not here. 

                    
                      Who am I?
An immigrant.                 An alien.
                       A hanging cloud.
Which neither rains      nor does a rainbow proud. 
A bridge                            that no one crosses.
                    Foot in two boats,
                  Slipping away slowly
                          but
still standing,              still becoming.