Existential Oxymoron

Oppressed in silence I cannot speak,
Like fish out of water I cannot breathe,
Toxic with micro-aggressions and hatred,
Deadly with divisions and labels,
I breathe in the air that kills me.
I do not belong outside my habitat,
I do not thrive, I do not survive.

I do not belong at home.
I do not belong with my own.
I do not belong where the maroon flies bold.

No. I somewhat fit in at home.
I somewhat fit in with my own.
I somewhat fit in where the maroon flies bold.

Actually, I’m not sure where’s home.
I’m not sure who are my own.
I’m not sure if it’s maroon that flies bold.

They tell me I’m a minority,
They show me that I’m a minority,
They treat me as a minority,
But I am not a minority.
I stand tall, and I stand proud,
I say to all, and I say it loud,
I am not what they say I am.
I am not a statistic,
I am more than a demographic,
I am not my skin and I am not my hair,

I am not…
I am not…
I am not…

But what am I?
Who am I?

I am desperately trying to find myself in the melting pot.
I am in-between identities,
But I know who I am.
I know where I am from,
But I don’t know where I belong.
My existential oxymoron.

I know who I am:
The compass of my identity points to Africa,
The magnetic pull of my heart points home ,
To the eastern coast of Tanzania,
To The Haven of Peace,
I know where I am from:
The compass of my identity points to Africa,
The magnetic pull of my heart points home,
To the land of mbuzi* and maandazi*,
To the land of unity and amani.*

I know…
I know…
I know…

I know who I am,

I know where I belong.
But I do not know who I am,
I do not know where I belong.
My existential oxymoron.

Tracy Eric writes about fitting in.

*Mbuzi means goat meat in Swahili.
*Maandazi is a doughnut-like bread we have for breakfast in Tanzania.
*Amani means peace in Swahilli.

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