In the mirror on Vishu morning I see an Indian woman
Whose Brooklyn tongue can't form Hindu prayers.
Can I bleach my skin to match my voice?
Can I shave my tongue to match my face?
I've resigned myself to my fate--
Forever asking the sky
In a language my children will never recognize,
In an accent my grandparents will never understand.
I am what my parents feared I may become;
A child whose soul has turned Westward;
A woman whose only memories of Diwali are the flickering lights.
* The title should read "Who am I?" I had trouble putting in the question mark.