- Zahra Choudry
As the roots of my blonde-encroached hair grow
and expose their untainted jet black hue, my mother
and her mother’s and her mother’s heritage appear before me,
their insurmountable resilience and their faith,
are embedded within the divinity of a
seventy-microns-strand where magnanimity
culminates and my wins, loss, successes, fears
formulate its atomic structure.
I have been the fool who has fallen prey to
ideals of futility, as the bleach has diminished and
degraded my mother, her mother, and her mother’s tenacity.
Nonetheless, I progress.
I have been ignorance,
scornful as well. But I have been success,
an arrogance of sorts, as well. From my mother’s humility,
to my father’s pride, I am their heredity.
The western tissue has attempted to immolate the jet-black
expression of my hair, disguised behind the notion of assimilation,
of obstinate, invulnerable conformity.
but it will not conquer.
Still, the all-severing time seems to subdue
my ignorance, for I am not more a burden than
I can bear myself.