Me, My Tongue, and Home

I'm doing my favorite thing in the world, but I am not feeling as much joy. 
Each word coming out of my mouth is a knife, hurting my ears. 
I'm taking breaks, not for breathing, but for second-guessing. 
"I'm proud of my tongue, witness of my story and history," I say, 
But I often feel like cutting it. 

I am still anticipating hearing those words, "Go Home!"
I don't know if I should be upset or agree. 
It is an insult, right? But as much as it hurts, it reflects how I feel inside. 
Not at home. I know I am not home. I am not from here. 
I'm always sharing my home with people. Is it pride or a survival mechanism? 

Where is home? Here or there? 
Is it the one I'm living in now or the one I spent ten years of my life? 
Is it the house where I wake up, or where my parents still sleep? 
Is it the church where my Heavenly Father welcomes me?
Do you know what it is like to feel like a problem everywhere? 

I don’t want to fit in. I want to belong. 
I am talking. Can you hear me? 
Are you listening? I feel invisible. 
Why are you laughing? 
No, I can't show you more. 
Because you refuse to see. 

I don't understand half of what you discuss, 
And you wouldn’t understand half of my experience. 
How can we cross that bridge?
We both have so many layers.  
We are so similar but so different.
And so often, we are the same color. 

What do you see when you see me? 
An idiot as soon as I open my mouth. 
I saw it in your eyes.
That's the first time I've faced that. 
What changed? 
Not my color or my appearance
But they carry a meaning here. 
Not my tongue 
But it is twisted now
With foreign words and sounds. 
Is that the problem? 

Maybe my problem finding a home 
is me, my personality
But can you see through my eyes what it is to feel like a problem; 
You don't exist as you but through lenses.
You live in your brain, not in the world. 
You come to not live but to think. 

When you see me, 
See my parent's hope, 
My family's trust, 
My friend's confidence, 
My ethnic pride, 
My faith in God, 
Holding me up.
Because of them,  
I show up every day, 
I speak up every day. 
It requires strength that you don't have ideas of. 
Maybe you do. Only you know.  

I'm not the only one, but why do I feel like it? 
I know my feelings are valid 
The letters back them up
Forbes, LaTimes, Washington Post…
The numbers back them up
Pew Research Center
I am a black
I am a female
I am an immigrant
I am a black female immigrant 
In a world that despises us
I just hope I'll not lose my ethnic self
Neither will it prevent me from belonging
How do I achieve that?

Anne Samuele Francois