To the restaurant I’ve worked at for four years,
that’s equal opportunity, that prides themselves on how they do not discriminate
against sex, race, gender identity, sexual orientation, disability,
pretending like I didn’t overhear that I’ve been kept
as a host so a pretty, smiling face is the first thing guests see,
to the family members I visit only at
Thanksgiving,
the ones who hug me, kiss the crown of my head
—where no crown will ever rest—
and ask me how school is going, not caring that now
I am more educated than they had ever hoped to be,
the ones who disregard my answers in favor of
exclaiming to everyone within earshot just how
beautiful I am,
what a lovely young
woman
I’ve grown into,
to the uncle who’s hand lingers on the small of my back as he says to my boyfriend,
“If I were twenty years younger, you’d have a fight on your hands,”
knowing damn well that would still make you twenty years older than me,
to his son who taught me too early
that being wanted was the best thing
I could be; taunting that no means
yes, while simultaneously claiming he can’t hear me,
thank you,
I needed to be reminded that because I am a
woman
I am nothing.
Photo by Zulmaury Saavedra on Unsplash
