Monday, May 30, 2016

An ode to the girls who became women in America.

Sixteen years of age I came to this country. They told me to put my head down, use my English name, erase my native lounge. English as my second language classes because my accent was thick with confidence , stressing every consonant so they knew that I was educated in the queen’s language because that’s what I had been taught my whole life. The queen’s English. Still they stared at me . Looks of disgust so I registered for accent changing classes. I couldn’t call home to practice my language because they would ask me how things were in the land of milk and honey and I would have to lie and say things were well . Things were good. But  I knew things were bad. Very bad. Nothing told me I would have to wait outside cold at night for the white men to enter into me and dash me nothing but coins. My people survived and so I had to survive . every night I had to survive. Avoiding letters from home. Dodging calls from home. Praying to this god that taught the importance of struggle to live a life of blessings. But everyday I entered these white women’s homes baby sitting, sewubf, cooking, cleaning. i did all of their work and so I resented them except the really nice white family who let me stay at their home. They loved Africans and so they loved me too. Their little charity project. I did anything I could do to survive. Every night surviving so one day I could have the courage to send telegram to my father saying O di mma. I am fine. A huru m gi nanya. I love you. Jisie ike. Well wishes good luck. Anam emisi gi. I miss you.

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