Lessons of a PWI Pt. I

Summertime used to be my favorite,

Back when I was in my city's embrace,

I'd tan, not freckle, nor burn,

But here, all I hear is “you’re so dark,”

A phrase unknown back home,

Yet it's not a phrase here either,

It's called a microaggression.

At my job, doing what I should,

A random old man approaches, with a laugh, he asks:

“Do you speak English?” — an unwarranted query,

Old people spoke to me before back home,

But never with such doubt,

Here, it's not a question

It’s called a microaggression.

My roommate came back and said:

“I saw a group of Asian kids on campus and I thought you’d be with them.”

My friends back home would never say this to me,

That's because my roommate isn't my friend,

If they were, they'd understand,

It’s called a microaggression.