See the white flocks of suburbia? See the lawns and the Benzes and the benches and the fakes and the fear and the longing? Smell the constipated fumes of fresh grass, the pungent need to renovate so as not to aggravate the man next door? My skin is creme, not caucasian, not flecked with false trust like a fern fence. My skin does not shine stale shale, does not mould into matted lawns, trip over traditions that talk more than the children at church. Hands pale as birch, they quell next to their hulking fathers and hawk-eyed mothers, quell feeling confined, closeted, coerced, quell thinking that fern fence isn’t there because the green grass blends the barrier between brotherhood and banishment. I seek your company, not your culture. I seek your wealth, not your wisdom. I seek perfection, not purportedly pristine palaces manacled upon the maniacal fingertips that meticulously modelled gated gardens. Enjoy, don’t engorge, don’t suppose you are predisposed to impose your whitewashed walkways on me. I believe in identity as it is slung to be hurled: fluctuating, flexible under the ropes that my hands gayly grasp, grip until they slip and soar, spiral through walls rigid, customs livid that I can choose whose rules really resonate, really respond, really land between greens and manipulate middle grounds. I hail from intrepid Iran and royal Romania, blow the Richter scale because my impact is in fact interwoven, painted to manifest in the microfibers of multiculturalism, masked in a mist of white bland, white happy, white sad, white mad, white like an easel, dexterously decorated of my own design. White, though not confined.