Who am I to you?
I’d like to say that I am more than what meets the eye.
I find it absurd that some people make assumptions about who I am, especially those who only knew me for two months. They ask generic, superficial questions, maybe dabble in a few intellectual conversations, and then suddenly, they know everything about me; the ins and outs of my chaotic mind, my past, present, and future—unwilling to see more than what those questions collect, more than what my body perceives.
My innocent face, I’ve noticed, attracts similar men, as if I’ve never experienced trauma, as if my childhood was perfect, as if I’ve never been wronged, hurt, or betrayed, as if the unseen scars on my back developed from my own doing. I’m this young, pure, beautiful Black/Asian woman who has supposedly never been a punching bag for other people’s hurts, who has never been a discarded throw rug in a basement once used to validate a man’s feelings for another woman. No, my innocent face—my perfected smile— reveals every aspect of my soul, and I’m judged before defended, determined before inspected. And because I’m not forthcoming about my traumas and expressive about my childhood, I must have not been hurt or assaulted, I must have not known the very definition of pain, the consumption of darkness, and the depletion of joy as I drown in an empty abyss, fantasizing my own funeral.
A man once told me that my smile is as if I’ve never seen the world burn; it is beautiful, wide, bright, innocent, fulfilling, quite compelling. It’s practically contagious, he had said, takes up space. He only knew me for a month then, and I wondered if it was almost intimidating for him, to contribute my smile to my story and think I’ve never seen demons, that I’ve never masked the rage boiling inside my blood.
Who am I to you?
I’d like to say that she is more than what meets the eye.
I find it absurd that some people make assumptions about who she is, especially those who only knew her for two months. Do they ask the most generic, superficial questions, maybe dabble in a few intellectual conversations, and then suddenly, know everything about her; the ins and outs of her beautiful mind, her past, present, and future? They must be unwilling to see more than what those questions collect, more than what her body perceives.
Her innocent face, she says, attracts similar men, as if she has never experienced trauma, as if her childhood was perfect, as if she’s never been wronged, hurt, or betrayed, as if the faded scars on her back were developed from her own doing. But she’s this young, pure, beautiful Black/Asian woman who has been a punching bag for other people’s hurts, who has been a discarded throw rug in a basement once used to validate a man’s feelings for another woman. Her innocent face—her perfected smile— does not reveal every aspect of her soul, and I don’t judge before defending. I inspect before determining. And though she is not forthcoming about her traumas and expressive about her childhood, I know she must have been hurt and assaulted, I know she must have known the very definition of pain, the consumption of darkness, and the depletion of joy as she drowns in an empty abyss, fantasizing her own funeral.
I once told her that her smile is as if she has never seen the world burn; it is beautiful, wide, bright, innocent, fulfilling, quite compelling. It’s practically contagious, I had said, taking up space. I only knew her for a month then, and it was intimidating for me. But I didn’t contribute her smile to her story and think she’s never seen demons, that she’s never masked the rage boiling inside her blood.
“Who am I to you?” she asks.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, “You are more than what any man deserves.”
