“What 
are you?” 
What am I? 
How do I go about 
answering that? Black as 
night, bright as day. Freckles 
scattered everywhere. “She’s different,” 
I’m told. Well, I’m not your mold. Glossed 
platter-sized chocolate eyes, A buttoned nose, and 
two pairs of lips so bare. The upper brown, the lower pink. 
It's not discoloration. Kinky oily coily hair that I have no choice but 
to wear. They are tied into two tough puffs. “Ouch!” I shout. They are tightly 
bunched together, resembling inky irises. “Ciara, nice hair,” they say. “It’s quite 
exotic.” Exotic I think not, maybe chaotic. I have curly hair everywhere, bet it’ll reflect
 through my silverware. Insecure, quite unsure. Conflicted you may have predicted. Cheeks
 moist and tender, coated with a glaze of warm chocolate drops. Drip-Drip-Drip they go, from
my cheeks to lips they melt—felt from a state of confusion. But what am I, America? I love me. 
But maybe you don’t. I am an immigrant. Citizen. Status unknown. Black. Brown. I am 
democracy and I am a demon you say. I am your hope, your dream, your past, your
present. Your plague. Crying into the everlasting night. I am your pain, your
promise, your slave, your President. I am your foreigner, your future. 
I am your tears, your joy, your blood-stained reminder of your
new word run amok.  I am me, I am you, or maybe 
I am nothing at all. No, I am something. 
I am your contradiction.

Performance

Process

We are both children of immigrants and one day we began talking about whether or not we have a cultural background outside of America and whether or not we felt connected to it. For both of us, the words came easy. Myra thought about a girl who did not love her hair, and with the color part she stands out of place. Reniqua remembered how it felt to be disconnected from both your body and the world. We both felt like we wanted to tell the story of a girl where America is her culture, but it’s also hard because it’s not, that’s why it’s so hard.