A RACE WITH RACE

My race is a race–
It’s where I’m going, where I’ve been.
Where I see them, the people like me,
Chai-colored skin, dark hair, sometimes red or blonde;
Dark eyes, sometimes blue or hazel.
It’s where I find them, my people, creases around their tired lips,
Hands weaving an intricately embroidered shawl,
Preparing food like it’s for fifty, even when its for five.
Callouses don’t stop them,
Even though they are not in the same race I am.
They are of the people, with the people,
And I am of them, not with them.
They take their time, enjoy life’s most precious moments–
All because they can.
But I can’t,
I need to keep up.
There are some who are much ahead of me, like they think this is easy,
And there are the ones at my pace,
Their plastered smiles resembling mine.
I try not to focus too much on the ones lagging behind, each breath becoming slower,
With every step.
America’s ideals are ganging up on me;
Three plane flights are the lesser half of the barriers I face,
To be with the people.
Even so, American culture enters my mind,
Wanting to rub off the little piece I keep of my heritage, I have left, under the folds of my heart.
Born in America, and not of America, still.
I’m panting; it’s the only way,
To be of another place, but still be part of the United States.
No matter the dream any immigrant has, the American dream overtakes it.
Where is the line between citizen and outsider?
I can never tell.
Most don’t survive the struggle, this survival of the fittest,
And only those close to the standards of American society can make it;
Those who adapt to Darwin’s theory will flourish.
Sweat bleeds from my forehead, my eyes red and wide,
For how can inclusivity include everyone but me?