Minority Report

by Ebbie Benson

In 8th grade, I read the word “chink” for the first time, and felt as though everyone’s eyes were on me.

I wish my eyes were big and inviting.

I am twisted—

Confused as to why I find it flattering when I notice that guy who has a history of taking girls that look like me home.

I wonder what the woman who had the courage to carry me looks like. 

I look in the mirror as a child and all I notice are my eyes.

My prom date told me not to get a spray tan because I’d still be tanner than every other girl without one. 

I laughed, because apparently I found this funny.

I check the box on applications that improves my chances, the box that exists to fulfill a quota.

I wonder if I am even allowed to feel like this—

If I qualify to feel out of place while trying to be like everyone else.

Perhaps this is just the condition of every young woman;

Laughing off the dissatisfaction, searching for identity.

A boy in my photography class cautions me not to cut my hair short because it’s the “most Asian” thing I could do.

I deny every feeling of estrangement from the majority around me.

I leave my body and enter my mind.

I wish I had blonde hair.

I attempt to become someone else.

It feels like self-pity, so I continue the process of denying the obvious.

I am old enough now and ignoring reality is no longer an option.

Every comment made by others is a memory that has led me to the learning process of understanding myself.

To acknowledge the obvious and discover what to do with it. 

The world is opening up, a new perspective forms.

What was once something that I tried to distract others from now creates my being.

I open my mouth and speak of what it is like.

I have a voice that gives me a job to do.

I have tan skin that does not fade in the sunless months of winter.

I have thick, coarse hair that every hairdresser tells me never to ruin with hair dye.

My eyes are evidence of my reality.