The Vanderbilt Project on Unity & American Democracy’s 2023 Poetry Contest
Third Place
By Shlagha Borah, University of Tennessee, Knoxville
| My homies ask me to teach my American friends how to cuss in our tongue. I say: profanity is only for myself. My friend from LA says they can turn me into a brown Kylie Jenner. I look at my skin and don’t see brown. My professor insists I am. I say, can you teach me how to pronounce this? I always pick the wrong syllables to stress on. I laugh before they laugh. I stand for hours in the social security office. I write Assamese in English. My parents think in Assamese and translate every word into English. They are worried they might fail their Visa interview. I have not even been here long enough to qualify as an immigrant. I have always been a daughter of place. I cannot see Ma’s face for three minutes without freezing. We are oceans apart. Data is so expensive and it is only one thing. I pay thirty dollars to draw my palms. My aunt grinds jetuka every Bihu. I think of the borpitha Ma fries on Uruka night. I barf the American-Mexican burrito bowl. I make my White roommate try paan & her mouth explodes. I cook paratha and buy lassi for lunch. I am running towards and away from my Indianness at the same time. I go to Target and Walmart and Trader Joe’s and I practice small talk. I eat everything bagels and cream cheese and croissants and pop tarts and cheez-its.and frozen pizza for dinner and I forget I didn’t pack Aaita’s bogori pickle. I see cereal on both sides of the aisle. I gape & gape & gape |