On Beauty, Stereotypes and Cultural Appropriation

Age nine, 

Hair plaited tightly down my back,

Red bindi, 

More bangles than I can count. 

The sickly sweet smell of the sumac flowers that grandfather picked for me,

Mother am I pretty yet?

I learned about home today, mother,

They told us how brave they were,

How they traveled to our distant land to correct us,

But ma, they called us uncultured,

I heard my teacher mutter "terrorist" under her breath,

Mother, are we bad people?

They're avoiding me at school, mother,

The bindi which you love so much has been mistaken for a bull's eye,

To the butt of their jokes, 

The subject of their mockery,

Is there that much sin, in the skin I was born in?

Forgive me, as I take off these golden bangles,

And let my hair down like the girls in the magazine,

Forgive me as I wash away home,

My bindi is gone now, my forehead is blank- 

I smell chemically sweet.

Mother, do you forgive me?

A girl wore a bindi to school today mother,

She was dressed like the girls back home,

Yet- her skin is as white as the valiant 'warriors' who whitewashed our wonderful land.

But why is she considered beautiful, mother?

When all they sing to her are praises, as she feigns my skin,

Why am I the terrorist?