Your Story, My Story
you were an outcast on the playground
your big nose couldn’t fit in the games
and your hair was too unruly
for the ponytail girls, the ponytail girls.
you grew up angry
as your parents expected the world from you
we came here with nothing for you
they said, ringing through your dreams.
the first time a white boy looked at you,
it felt like you were worth something.
you wonder why his pale gaze
makes a brown girl feel that way.
you’re not the billboard girl,
in the ponytail club,
the henna up your arms is fading
descending into oranges, discarded.
your life became one of expectation,
trying to please them
and them
but never you.
you’re 21 now. you think of the playground days
of your parents who are yelling for you from downstairs,
of the white boys and their strange gazes,
and you wonder
is it too late to start pleasing me?
no, it’s never too late.
you were an outcast on the playground
your big nose couldn’t fit in the games
and your hair was too unruly
for the ponytail girls, the ponytail girls.
you grew up angry
as your parents expected the world from you
we came here with nothing for you
they said, ringing through your dreams.
the first time a white boy looked at you,
it felt like you were worth something.
you wonder why his pale gaze
makes a brown girl feel that way.
you’re not the billboard girl,
in the ponytail club,
the henna up your arms is fading
descending into oranges, discarded.
your life became one of expectation,
trying to please them
and them
but never you.
you’re 21 now. you think of the playground days
of your parents who are yelling for you from downstairs,
of the white boys and their strange gazes,
and you wonder
is it too late to start pleasing me?
no, it’s never too late.
Hana Shafi is a journalist, artist, and poet. She spends her time hanging around Toronto, doodling, and re-watching Lord of the Rings. For more poetry by Hana, visit her Tumblr page.
