"What are you?"

I am an island girl

Yet when I say it

They all scoff.

I do not "act" it

I do not "look" it.

Therefore I am a lie.

I'm muddled and dirty

From the colonialism

And the rape of history,

Forced religious conversion.

"Go back to your own country"

The blood inside me runs

Five directions at once

Do you mean China?

Perhaps Japan,

Or the Philippines?

If I'm 1/16 Spanish

Do I cut off my finger and ship it there?

My maternal grandfathers

Do not belong to my motherland

They are visitors--guests

Of the gracious Americans.

Which is why one stayed,

The other I never knew.

Invaders, you say.

How can I invade while forced?

If I never ask to be here

How have I invaded?

"What nationality are you?"

American.

"Yes, but where are you from?"

I stand there confused.

"You do not look American."

I wonder if I am.

I think bitterly

About the domination of

My ancestors who died,

My culture wiped clear,

My history demolished.

I am so mixed

With so many things

when I claim a piece of culture

From my many different people,

I am desperate for belonging.

I am the soda cup of a child,

Who fills it with each and every beverage available.

A bit of lemonade,

Then the coke,

Lastly the cherry mist with a hint of iced tea.

No one drinks of it

Not even the child.

I collage my very being.

I scrapbook myself.

I tear out the pages.

I rewrite my lines.

I sew and cut and paste

and glue and stitch

and break and press and erase.

Until all that's left is a giant mistake.

We are all too dark

Too religious in the wrong ways

Not man enough or too emotional

We love wrong with rainbow banners.

Perhaps we are too colorful

To be Americans.

We belong here

We shout

As the walls rise up against us

As waves of white crash down.