Second Life

These past few weeks I've been unable to sleep well,
I get woken up with a jolt or fall asleep far past 5,
because I worry about things that I should not
be consistently worried or wakeful about.

I think about the second life that I have cultivated;
the identity that I have molded, the best parts of myself
downplayed and suppressed in hopes of building a 
world where I can be fit-in, be well-meaning and
strangly seem like an entirely different person.

Most of my life I have rejected American-ness
with the tourists that talk too loud on German buses,
eat McDonald's in Paris across from the Louvre, 
and go to the Thai Palace in shorts and sandals. 
I have spent much of my life trying to be less than that
in hopes of being mistaken for a friendly Canadian.
Everyone seems to like them. They cause little trouble.  

Perhaps I'll go on vacation and become Turkish again,
or grow a beard and be mistakenly called Iranian. 
Maybe I'll walk across campus as the Italian Students
gawk at me wondering who is that Italian?
Perhaps like in the US, I will be mixed or half-white, or half-black,
or Latinx, but mixed blood with gringo dust. 
Truthfully, my melanin has never betrayed me like America
where I am a brotha to some and a target to others. 

In the second life, it's rarely discussed in English, but
whispered by shopkeepers, passersby and small children. 
They gawk in excitement, in such surprise and mostly confusion
as they try to place where I am from or what I represent.
In the minds of many, there are many interpretations;

              To the Mother in the grocery store who told her child
              never to stray too far or else a foreigner will kidnap them
             before staring at me and becoming meek and embarrassed; 

             To the Uncle on the train who stared at my hairy legs
             thinking of animals, bears and monkeys until he caught my
             glare opened Douyin and frowned apologetically;

             To the Small Child who sees my face and cries
             as they run to their mother saying "Monster! Monster!"
             until his mother wipes tears and apologizes profusely; 

             To the neighborhood children who throws rocks at me 
             for a foreigner is a monster and a monster must be stoned
             until their Aunt scolds them for I am here to see the beautiful China;

             To the student who thought I couldn't wash my curly hair
             since curly hair cannot get wet or else something happens,
             because the mere thought of otherism outweighs basic logic; 

These situations have happened consistently since I started
my second life here. The mere appearance of myself casts
shadows as micro-aggressions and macro-aggressions line
good intentions, wholesome events and daily living. 

The only privilege I have been afforded here is linguistic;
the mere sound of my accents dispels the otheristic myths and folktales
of the curly hair that cannot get wet or the kidnapping foreigner
that steals children in broad daylight in grocery stores mass surveilled. 

With a few short words, their body language opens as they recognize
that Gaokaoese accent from their high school days.
Some no longer recoil, but smile and wave cheerfully, some
glare, but not as angrily as before as their angry turns to confusion.
Sometimes my melanin has betrayed me, but my defense mechanism
has been the American-ness I used to whole-heartedly reject.