concrete

We can only go as far as they'll let us go.

But

we try

Opened businesses in urban jungles. Then swiftly moved to raise our families in white suburbs.

We aggressively assimilated. Adopted acceptable American names. Replaced our comfort foods with burgers and fries. Learned flawless unaccented English. Replaced our mother tongue. Forgot our heart language.

Sent our children to university. Left the nail salons, laundromats, and convenience stores. Became doctors, lawyers, and bankers.

But

it wasn't enough.

It'll never be enough.

The color of our skin will always be too dark, too yellow. Our hair will be too black. Our eyes too almond.

They'll keep asking us for our country of origin, casually, like they're buying a farm-raised chicken at Whole Foods. They'll exclaim that our English is GREAT(!) and ask us where we learned it. Ask us if we have an American name because our ethnic ones are too hard and they don't want to butcher it by trying to pronounce it.

We'll let them hold us down. Let them make us feel unwanted. Let them hold us up as an example of the right kind. Let them make us watch as our fellow BIPOC are murdered.

And

we aren't going to say anything.

We'll go on and try to assimilate. Try to do better. Try to pass. Try to prove we're the model ones.

There will be no marches, no collective action, no uprising.

Because

because we know that

one day,

it might be us on the

concrete.