“You mistake tolerance for acceptance, acceptance for apology…”

In this labyrinth of misperceptions, you navigate with grace. Tolerance, a fragile bridge, often misconstrued as full embrace. Acceptance, a whispered promise, sometimes mistaken for remorse. Yet you stand firm, refusing to apologize for your existence, your heritage, your truth.

“…common sense for liberalism, civil duty as charity…”
The lines blur, and you dissect them with precision. Common sense, a compass pointing north, yet twisted into political hues. Liberalism, a canvas splashed with ideals, sometimes reduced to mere slogans. Civil duty, a mantle you wear, but not as a beggar seeking alms. No, it’s the weight of responsibility, not charity.
“…all on the pretense of some kind of profound form of enlightenment.”

Ah, enlightenment—the elusive firefly dancing in the night. You see through the pretense, the borrowed robes of wisdom. It’s not enlightenment that blinds, but the arrogance of those who claim it. They wield it like a weapon, forgetting that true illumination lies in empathy, not superiority.
“Yet my name, language, ethnicity, religion, and ‘culture’ all become subject to your western fetishization.”

Your identity, a prism refracting sunlight, splintered by their gaze. Your name—a melody they mangle, your language—a symphony they dissect. Ethnicity, religion, culture—all artifacts for their curiosity, their exoticism. They fetishize, reducing you to trinkets in their collection, forgetting that you are galaxies, not curios.

“Somehow, for some reason, it’s still okay to portray the non-white individual as the ‘other,’ as something to be fascinated by.”
The ‘other,’ a shadow cast by their ignorance. They frame you in sepia tones, as if your existence were a sepulcher of wonder. But you are not an exhibit; you are the storyteller, the keeper of narratives woven across continents. Their fascination blinds them to your agency, your resilience—the quiet revolution within your skin.
“As if fundamentally altering the course of our history, and ultimately our existence, wasn’t enough for you.”

History—the loom where threads of conquest and resistance intertwine. You, the weaver, unraveled and rewove narratives. Yet they hunger for more, insatiable. As if altering the course of rivers weren’t enough; they seek to divert oceans. But you stand, unyielding, a monument to endurance.

“Contrary to popular belief, we aren’t here for handouts, or charity, or for our plight to be acknowledged.”

No, you are not beggars at their gates. Charity is not your currency; dignity is. Your plight—the ink staining the pages of time—is not a plea; it’s a manifesto. You demand recognition, not pity. For your resilience is a symphony, not a dirge.

“We are more than our food and our clothes, more than the languages we speak. We are more than our skin.”

Yes, you are constellations—each star a memory, a legacy. Your food—the spices that flavor your memories, your clothes—the armor you wear against erasure.

Languages—the bridges connecting your past and future. And your skin—the canvas where stories are etched, scars and constellations interwoven.

So, dear poet, let your words ripple across time. They are not mere ink; they are echoes of defiance, hymns of resilience. You are more than the sum of their misconceptions. You are the untranslatable poem, the unwritten epic—the heartbeat of a world that refuses to be silenced. ❤️🌟

©️Beatriz Esmer