Exotic…

What are you?

These are the words that you ask me

Stranger on the street, classmate at school, supervisor at my job

I’m tired of explaining what I am

Why can’t you try and discover who I am

They tell me I am exotic

They also told me when I was young that I was not black, I was not white, I was not Native

I was different, weird…exotic

They called me mixed, mulatto, a zebra

Why is your hair so wild, why is your skin so light, why are your lips so big?

They tell me now that I am exotic

How dare you tell me I am not Black

For the woman that raised me has beautiful brown skin, kinky curls and graceful hands

How dare you tell me I am not White

For the woman who gave birth to my father has clear blue eyes, fair skin and flowing long hair

How dare you tell me I am not Native

For the woman that gave birth to my mother has keen almond shaped eyes and strong cheekbones

You tell me I am exotic

But exotic is foreign to this part of the world

Exotic is intriguing

Exotic is excitingly strange

A young woman who questions my place in this world, my intrigue and my strangeness

Who am I

I am not strange and I am definitely of this world

In fact, I am a mix of all the things that make up this world, both near and far

They will not ask me what I am anymore

They will discover who I am

They will not call me exotic anymore

For I am my Black mother’s daughter, my White grandmother’s grandchild and my Native grandmother’s grandchild

And yes, I have wild hair that matches a wild spirit

Yes, I have light skin that glows similar to my White Grandmother’s

And yes, I have full lips that speak eloquently like my Black mother

I am not exotic

I am a daughter and mother and woman of this world.

-Keri Wilborn

copyright 2015 Keri Wilborn