‘At least your skin isn’t black’ as if that changes anything or makes it better.

I am still as foreign with my white skin. With my ‘funny sounding’ language,

in a country where people don’t understand the concept of knowing

different languages, where they know no other, except for their own.

 

                                             One. And only.

 

Where I can’t speak my mother tongue. No one will understand and I might

 even offend someone. Because my tongue is cut in two and sometimes

a word slips and I’ll have to apologize. ‘Sorry’ I’ll say with a smile,

dying on the inside, ashamed. Apologizing for using my language.

 

                      That’s not what my family taught me.

 

‘I expected your accent to be a lot heavier’ But you didn’t know

that it took me twelve years to get rid of that accent, the one

I should be proud of.

                                          

                                             And I am.

 

I am proud of my Balkan soul that dreams to go back to the deep salty sea

and the mighty mountains. I miss my small homeland that many

have never heard of. In this flat country I miss the hollows and the heights.

In this country I am foreign.

 

                                           I am an alien.