Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher Magazine, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
As a schoolboy
I was always asked what “mix” I was
As if I were ingredients to make a cake by
As if I were eggs that needed to be separated into yellows and whites
For batter — or worse then, I would say I’m half-baked or setengah masak
Like the two half-boiled eggs my anglophile, wholly Ceylonese father
ate ritually every morning
Made faithfully by his Chinese-born, Indian-adopted wife
and served with white salt, black pepper and brown toast
White, yellow, brown or black?
Colour, mix, race, boxes to tick
Why didn’t we have more choices like the Luna 12-colour pencil boxes we had
or the 64-colour boxes that my rich friends had that I so envied
‘Cause I was told I was not Malay, Chinese nor Indian
and even though the teacher insisted Ceylonese should be classified under Indian
I refused to play the game
(And why was my mother’s “composition” not in the equation?)
When it comes to race, cikgu, jangan main-main (teacher, don’t play, play)
I would rather be tagged Lain-lain
Not as a badge of shame
But to show that that under this pricked skin we are same-same
We are all from the same DNA, so why do you label me as another?
Do our mothers and fathers deserve to be called Others?
I could call you sister or brother or any pronoun you wish to be
You see, it really doesn’t matter to me
I only see what I see
Do you not see me too?
So, tell me again:
What colour are your fears?
What race are your tears?
What religion is your blood?
What language are your hopes?
What ancestry, breeding, caste, descent, extraction, pedigree, parentage,
background status do I have to be, to call you my friend?
And what will it take for you to identify me as hu-man?
Because when they made Lain-lain they didn’t just break the mould
They broke the yoke
and mixed in white salt and black pepper
and dipped brown toast in it and it was whole-
meal, fully organic, naturally delicious, take it or leaven it
We may decline to be defined by tiny boxes you tick on
and we may pay the price because we don’t conform
But at least we know we are our own
Yes, I am the Other
We. Are. All. Others.
Instead of Other
Can’t you just reach out
Shake my hand and call me brother?
First published in Delhiwallah Poetry Collective Anthology, India
