(I went to Morocco as a Moroccan I left reminded I was not)
Sophia shares a poem about the displacement she felt after visiting her mother’s homeland
I have always felt culturally isolated in England, in my home. I am not quite Arabic and not quite Jamaican and not quite British. I am reminded of these facts constantly. Navigating belonging in a world so static in its boundaries has been a challenge. Upon visiting my mother’s homeland as an adult, I prepared myself for acceptance however my displacement followed me on my travels. This is a poem I wrote reflecting on these experiences.
(I went to Morocco as a Moroccan I left reminded I was not)
if the ants ceased to scurry
you would never know there was a hole present
one by one, like an army
they marched
from the crack in the wall
across the cold floor
to the fridge
I watched the ants
as my Senegalese twists were tugged
and pulled, by the handful
as words and phrases
were said by the mouthful
so sped
I forgot to understand
It didn’t hurt
but before it had been issued
I knew
the style wouldn’t suit me
It was made for straight hair soft hair silky hair
not my hair
instead of thinking too deeply about the oxymoron of my competing hair styles as a physical amalgamation of my internalised cultural dispute
I looked closely at the uniform ants
all aware of their place
along the cracked white tiles
I looked closer still
one wasn’t quite in line
Illustration by Jazz Thompson (www.instagram.com/jasmineshaniceart/)