‘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.