The woman with the straight blond hair doesn't know.
I place the small bottle of serum on the cash desk.
’Just that one?’ the woman with the straight blond hair asks.
’Yes please’, I say. Having learned over the last 7 years in the UK to always attach a please or a sorry to every yes and no.
In the country where I lived before, you didn’t have to do that. And nobody thought you rude because of it.
I just want to pay for this small bottle of serum and enjoy the spring day outside.
Instead the woman with the straight blond hair starts a war.
‘Where do you originate from?’
The air is stuck in my throat for a second.
?
Why?
?
‘Italy’, I say, not even attempting to smile. Tired.
’Oh’, the woman says. ‘You look middle eastern, with your skin, your eyes, your hair,’ the woman makes a small gesture waving along her own, straight blond hair.
’I thought you were from Iran or Egypt.’
I remain silent.
I sigh internally.
Or is it audible?
I know the woman with the straight blond hair doesn’t mean any harm.
The woman is curious.
The woman only knows one country. One home.
The woman was never called a monkey in school.
The woman doesn’t know what her curiosity is doing to my heart today.
How do I explain to her that ‘Italian’ is not an ethnicity?
That I am from Sicily, but my last name is the Greek word for honey and my first name is Arab?
Does she know about the history of Sicily and all the people that have occupied it?
Does she know that everyone in my family looks different?
Does she know, that her inkling might be correct but that I don’t have the papers to proof it?
Does she know history or do I have to stand here and explain to her that for 38 years I haven’t felt at home anywhere?
That I don't know my place and my bones are tired?
How do I explain to her that I am an immigrant many times over?
That the place I was born is not the place I was raised?
That I never felt at home in neither?
That I came to this country hoping to find a ‘neutral’ ground to call my home?
What does the woman know of my desire for a people, a community to call my own, but having none to identify with, none to claim?
Does the woman know that my relatives call me a tourist when I visit?
Does she know that nobody welcomes me home?
Does she know that my passport is just paper?
What does she know of not being enough for what is supposed to be my
home?
What does the woman know of being a nameless thing?
How do I explain to the woman that her innocent question is one of many thousand tiny cuts underneath my skin?
Does she know that I am bleeding right in front of her?
Does she know that her words have just launched a war inside of me?
Does she know that I want to scream in her face.
’I DON’T KNOW!!!!’
’I DON’T KNOW WHERE I ORIGINATE FROM AND I DON’T KNOW WHERE I BELONG!!!!’
I hear the beep of the payment go through and put the small bottle of serum in my bag.
I say goodbye to the woman with the straight blond hair.
The woman doesn’t know that she just scratched a scar that is always trying to heal and breaks open again and again.
I just wanted to pay for a small bottle of serum without being reminded that I don’t belong.
Thank you for your words, your heart, your truth, your anger. All of it. All of it is welcome. All of it belongs. You belong so sweetly and deeply in the hearts of all the people who love you. Even when the minds of the ignorant try to box you.
Nadia, this was an absolutely gorgeous piece 😭
Hearing you read it was a gift as well.
Thank you for gracing us with your vulnerability.
____________
On a personal note, this resonates in part because of my multi-ethnic background (White, Black and Panamanian). Growing up a curly haired, lighter skinned kid in a city where White and Black were the only distinctions was challenging. I didn't "fit" into either box so I found myself navigating the gray to the best of my ability. Over time I've come to emphatically embrace my Blackness and the spectrum that it is. I haven't reflected on that in while but this took me back 🖤