He looks wary, The cloth around my head I am attacking him with cotton Made from the blood, sweat, and tears of my African brothers and sisters Sold by the tired ladies just trying to make a living on the streets of Jackson Heights He looks scared, The Arabic I speak. I am attacking him with words. Learned from my crying mother wishing her daughter would learn her mother tongue Forced upon me by the Saturday classes, where I was the youngest in the class He glances over to see my phone screen The music I listen to, I am attacking him by being American Playing is a bland song that charted the Top 50 last week Put on specifically to prove I am just like him. He shakes his head The reading I need to finish Thick, dense pages of difficult comprehension Put on full display for him to see He is scared. Of a young teenager Just trying to get to school Scared of me. On the 7 local train, Where I have sat next to a man Who I am scared of. Anonymous '21 (BHSEC Queens)
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