Raisin Bran

Mom always told me ‘బాగాస్వీటీతినండి’

Which means “eat well love”

Dad always told me “పాలుకూతురుతాగండి”

Which means “drink milk daughter”,

You see, my family is short. 

Not in spirit,

but in body. 

Raisin Bran. 

A little small,

Very brown,

And surrounded by white. 

Suburb to suburb,

School to school,

My surroundings changed like the seasons

But the pale consistency always stayed the same. 

I grew up feeling like 

the hardboiled egg yolk,

that dry yellow bit surrounded by the much better white part.

I grew up eating rice,

And it always tasted bitter. 

I grew up smelling spices,

That my classmates found weird.

I grew up watching Barbie, Cinderella, 

Anything the others liked,

I grew up hearing “turd, burnt, smelly girl, you don’t belong here”,

I grew up being picked apart,

The culture in me discarded as raisins onto the table.

I grew up wanting white but always falling short,

I grew up hating milk. 

It is a cold white lie. 

They said you are what you eat,

And I believed them. 

I drank milk every day, 

Every meal, 

Every snack,

I poured my dreams in that cereal. 

In that Raisin Bran.

In that promise of bigger and better,

Like the white boys around me.

I hid from the sun, 

To not get browner.

I wore Brandy Melville and Abercrombie

To cover my skin,

I bleached my own heritage. 

Called my own heritage stupid,

Dubbed my own language ugly,

And spoke to my parents in just English. 

Despite it being Raisin Bran,

I hoped to drown in this color.

Sink down to my head,

So the status and privilege would all seep

Through the cracks of my fibers.

And bring drain to this dessert.

But I choked on this milk. 

It smothered my character. 

Softened my soul like forgotten old cheerios. 

And I came out weaker than before. 

Just a brittle husk,

With nothing left to fill. 

Because, after all,

No one likes soggy cereal.