Margaret Bowland, Color 2, 2009 Oil on linen, 82 x 66 inches
When you were my age did you
worry about maturation while trying
to memorize examples of multiplication?
Ripe young age of uncertainty.
“It’s the hormones, you know, in the food.”
Ma says they don’t make ’em like they used to.
Don’t speak to me of
identity – we don’t have one,
Plastic barrettes cling to dead ends.
A trend of my culture, I immediately reject.
By relaxing the kink of my locks
I attempt to hide my biology.
With straight green hair I
feel my ancestor’s glare from above.
Even with the adversity
they can’t comprehend my lack of pride.
A wallflower is a glorified name
for being out casted whilst forced to remain.
Lacking a title,
I am a would-be face of a generation.
Between x and y the paint gets
poured creating pseudo skin
making me no different from Jane or John Doe.
The same paint that canvasses the backdrop
of an ethnic life. Until slowly the legacy
is forgotten, once blended just right.