Pale Faces

Dana Mirghani

Pale faces who hide from the sun
in the golden desert, in the land of the Blacks,

when they see my dark skin—
eyes beaming with a grudge
at skin favored by the sun.

My tongue recites Arabic from the Quran
in song and tashkil.
They are offended or impressed.
I know more of the book
that governs them
and frees me.

The native kids were more western than I thought.
They suspect I am more
than what their borders allow.

My voice on the phone with my grandmother
in the airport parking lot,
triggers an exchange of looks.

No American should speak like that.

I am a walking contradiction.

As if their British English didn’t tell
a story of its own crossing.

English synthesized at the intersection
of South Africa, Britain, and America.

As if they weren’t the diplomats' children,
who came from London, Nairobi, Punjab and Cape Town.

As if the United Nations
did not pay for their tuitions

As if they didn’t also wear
a tapestry of culture.

As if they too
didn’t exist at a crossroads.