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.
Not asian enough. 
Not really Asian.
Not the right asian.
Jungle Asian. 
Westernized Asian.
That's okay because

You're still white.

I choked them down and smiled and told myself this is fine. I laid down, rolled over, like a dog on a chain. Gave up, conformed, fit your box just so you could digest me. 

Do I finally get to resist it? Have I been beaten enough by it - am I hardened enough now? Jaded enough? Do I have enough walls up, are they fortified and steeled? Can they now withstand every time someone throws

But you are white. 

In my non-white face.

How unprompted, how cute - that you thought I needed a reminder.
I hope you know how absolutely IDIOTIC you sound, telling me such a blatant fact about myself as if you know me better than I know myself. As if I couldn't figure that out and you're here to offer me an education. 

I feel the exhaustion of being a warrior fighting it.
Let It Go.
Leave It Be. 
Not Today.

You'll try to strike me for being sun touched or bleached, so where do I go from here? 
Tell me where you leave me. Where or how you see me. But will you really free me? 
Or do you bolster the ties I'm trying to break?
Because I'm just not racially enough for you? When did you start thinking you mattered when your consideration of me ended?  

You're still white. 

Trust, I will forever know the sear of being attached to a Causcasian string, with which there will never be scissors sharp enough to cut. Not enough magic in a star in the sky, a penny in a fountain or a candle on your birthday to wish it away.

Let those strings singe and sting - I will burn this way, scorched skin, until it is seasoned, calloused, inured.
And maybe brown enough.