A Day in The Life of

Every morning I wake up, I stretch my legs. I yawn. Raise my arms above my head, twist and pop. Crack my neck. I remember that I'm starting another day, another week, another year, as me:

Not white.

Not male.

Not straight.

I take inventory of the privileges I do have and count my blessings.

Walking out of the house isn't the hardest part. Sometimes, there's nothing hard about my day at all. I make my errands, drive around town, and interact with people. I may even go an entire week without having to fake a smile or hold in my words.

That isn't always the case though.

All it takes is a look, a word, a transparent thought--and I remember why I would rather stay inside my room in front of the laptop. Or the words and looks and thoughts subtly build at the back of my mind instead over a period of time, mutating into something ugly and crystallized that chafes on my knee-jerk defenses until I can't ignore it. I must call it out.

For the most part, I keep silent to keep the peace to keep my mental health intact.

What do you see first when you look at me? I'm a girl. And I'm not white. Without being aware of it, your mind neatly files me away under "Asian," so that if you refer to me later in my absence to someone else, what you say doesn't come out as, "I met this girl the other day." It's "I met this Asian girl the other day." I am labeled and packaged for your convenience. I am different. I am Other. I have been Othered all my life, and I let this unchanging fact roll over my shoulders.

It's just another day, in the life of.