My blood, my history, my nation.
Sometimes my lack of identity rubs at the edge of my existence
Like the faded yellow “silk” flowers hanging from my neck, taunting my senses.
My bare feet glide along the rough wood of the makeshift stage
Right hip, left hip, my twisting graceful hands tell a story as old as age.
I live it, I breathe it, I am an answer to its equation.
Hundreds of eyes are trained on me like the glaring lights
A “Hawai’ian hula girl” is all they see but understanding is not married to sight
My wrists say made in the Philippines, my ankles say made in China
Everything I wear is an example of a global mall, down to my eyeliner.
So why is it even important for me to perpetuate a culture that is not even genetically mine?
Do I serve the raw foreign truth, or do I cater to expectations? Where do I draw the line?
By essence of who I am do I represent solidarity or diversity?
If I offer friendship, peace, and unity is it worth the cost of cultural clarity?
It is beyond time to question if it is wrong, it is me.