Poem by Premilla Murcott
What it means to look white?
Can’t help but think about it…
State of mind, random concept,
or just a lot of bullshit?
Some try to wrap me in a tiny box,
with a ribbon and a bow
Who I am, what’s on my mind -
they don’t really wanna know
What it means to be seen as white,
in the sexy new SA?
Token Girl
“Where are your friends?”
“What you doing in this place?”
“Don’t you know it’s just not safe
for you to be this far down town?”
“You better watch yourself,
’cause I’m watching you…
This ain’t where you belong.”
If I’d lived up to appearances,
wonder what the hell I’d be?
Straight as spaghetti
Smart as a lanie
Rolling financially free?
I’m getting used to being asked,
“What are you,
’cause you’re definitely not from here?”
..are you Brazilian, Lebanese
…lesbian or just bi-?”
“Please don’t take offence;
you just seem different…
& I can’t help wonder why?”
Traffic used to stop,
people stood and stared
when my parents walked the streets,
holding hands of different shades
I sense their clear memories
of what went down
back in the day.
In recent times, hear cars slow down
Look of deep disgust in a stranger’s eyes.
Let’s not hold hands
Do we start running?
Are those haters on the horizon?
Premilla, written Sunday 16 August 2009
Tags: creative, poem, race