All We See

I hope you don’t see me,

And see my father.

I know you won’t see him in my eyes,

But you might see him in my hair, or maybe even in the way I talk sometimes.


I hope you don’t see me as a byproduct,

Of a mistake you might have  made, of a life far gone.
I hope you don’t see me and see resentment,

A painful reminder.


I hope when you see me, 

You see yourself. 

I hope you see all the good parts of you,

That have made me better. 

That have shaped  me.


I hope when you see me, 

You love all the things we share

Like our olive skin and big brown eyes.

Like the way we laugh and maybe even how hard headed we can be. 


I hope when you see me, 

You don’t see the other half that made me.
I hope with time,

That part can fall away 


And all we see is you and me.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

But You're Still White..

 And oh how I wish I could erase it.  How much strength would it take to push it away, push it down? How much pain would it inflict to strip it from myself, from the inside out? How hard should I scrub to get this layer off of me? How much wealth would I have from the amount of people that tell me You're still white.  Have I talked about my proximity enough?  Have I talked about my privilege enough? Have I talked about my resentment enough? You're still white. It's never, do you identify as white? It's never, are you connected to your Caucasian background? I was born into a western society, and so I live accordingly. Held by both bigoted cuffs and resignation. Constraints I viewed as real, rules that felt like binding contracts I didn't even realize I signed. Whose hand was it that held the pen? From all the time I absorbed other people, shaped myself to who they saw, accepted that this was what I was supposed to be. I swallowed their words You're still white. N...
Read more

Feeling Like a Ping Pong Ball

 I've had a lot of conversations lately that swirl around what I pathetically describe as a "reckoning".  I have talked to a few people in my life surrounding having to reflect so much on my past and childhood racial issues - this reflection stemming from my parents divorce and accompanying shame of having a white father who didn't hold space for other parts of me (us). I have these constant thoughts of if my dad hadn't done the things he did, I wouldn't have had this figurative mirror placed in front of me. Maybe I wouldn't have to work through all of this now.  Discussing how exhausting it is to always be explaining myself and who I am because it doesn't fit the person's idea of me that they've prematurely constructed. Reiterating that I am Filipino, with a period, and that's the only thing I want to need to tell someone. Perpetually just wanting it to be enough. How I feel like the ball in a game of ping pong - being tossed around from e...
Read more

SAD

SAD feels like a deep aching in my chest  Something lodged so far there's no pulling it out  Even when I try to ease my figurative hand in I can't reach it No matter how hard or loud I cry  It won't shake it, doesn't rattle it Despite how tightly I wrap my arms around my ribcage  It won't pop it out of place I recall being a sunshine girl  Such a different version of myself  And I wonder where the hell she went Where the sun went  Why is it too easy  To allow myself  To leave  Eventually the ache subsides but I know it's still in there It comes back, in the darkness of the spaces my mind preoccupies  I lay in bed grasping for warmth Hoping the layers that I cover my head with  Might save me, maybe this time  But it always finds a way between the sheets Sometimes I long for someone to pick up this weight  If merely fleetingly  Yet I ask myself  If anyone could truly lift it  Am I the cookie in the cup...
Read more