by Gabby Nicasio
My father is white and sometimes he thinks I am, too.
There are things I’d like to say to him. Questions I’d like to ask, that I would ask if he weren’t my dad. Did you never consider what life is like for your own daughter? Did you see the way they all looked at me? At our family? Did you hear the things they said? Did you not notice any of it, not notice that I inherited this skin, this scar, this 4-century legacy of subjugation by white nations, white people? Did it never occur to you that I am not you? That I couldn’t be like you if I tried, and that I would rather die than assimilate?