What’s Mine is Not Yours

A pale-skinned, blonde-haired assumption of our relatability stuck with me like the sight of a fallen tree. I don’t quite know why it angered me so much. Maybe because you thought your life was the same as mine. But my experience is not yours. My people came here through force and your people are the force. My ears are tucked in through coin-threaded skirts and timbales and yours through banjos and fiddles. My stomach is settled by the spices you refuse to try and the sugar you take from my land to serve with your venti decaf caramel macchiato. My tongue rolls along the roof of my mouth while yours sits flat on the floor. My ancestors come from seas of sand and the island of time machines, yours from snowy caps and hijacked maps. My experience is not yours.