By Renée Vazquez A.

Most people find it ridiculous

that I dare call myself foreign.

My skin is pale,

I’ve lived here for years;

I have no accent, with a few exceptions,

But yet, I am foreign.

I have not the loyalty or the indebted view

that many immigrants do.

But yet, I am foreign.

I feel foreign.

I was raised foreign.

I manage a very different perspective

on various things.

I read foreign.

I speak foreign.

But not in the crowd,

no, not in front of those near me,

for I have enough sense not to stand out.

I miss my country’s culture,

it’s rich long history,

and the kindness of its people

and the food they eat.

I scowl in resentment,

when my native place is mocked.

Especially when those people are ignorant

or just plain wrong.

Don’t get me wrong; I see its faults.

I know that it is flawed.

But not in those ways that are said by some.

But, in many ways, I’m foreign there too,

in the ways that I’m foreign here as well.

For sometimes I feel I am a foreigner of the world.

 

Editor: A.J. Patencio