“What are you?”

 

I know what they mean—

 

I wish I didn’t.

 

I hate to give them the satisfaction of an answer.

 

What am I?

 

I hate to reward them for asking the wrong question.

 

My answer will allow them to file me away in a neatly labeled folder,

 

Sparing them the agony of taking time to ask any questions that matter.

 

It makes them nervous that my appearance isn’t an instant cue.

 

God forbid they get to know me.

 

God forbid they hear my thoughts, feel my feelings.

 

I wish I could make them see that my answer doesn’t matter…………….

 

Instead I mumble “halfblackhalfwhite”

 

And scurry away, asking myself:

 

Is that all you are?