i wear my n’stela
to fit in
and buy vegetables
from the vendors
to support local farmers

i wrestle with my tongue to ask questions in the main language
because in my country
i never bother to speak
my mother’s language aloud

i smile
to gain acceptance
from my brothers and sisters
who sometimes wanted nothing
but my USD

i ran when i couldn’t pedal
my grandfather’s bike
any longer
to shrink my belly
of the cholesterol
that free American public school lunches gave to me

i braided my hair
to disguise my natural curls
because…Africans don’t comb their hair

and because i didn’t want
them to call me ‘Winchar’
or “The Nappy Headed Amerikawit”

i walked with my head down
and buried in my cell phone
shuffling songs i didn’t want to hear
to keep strangers awau

i felt excluded
even among other
sons and daughters of the horn…