Am I Barbie Enough?

Wound of the Mouth of a Wound After Poem

After Torrin A. Greathouse

Betrayed by the people I called my own. The tenderness on my tongue was a sharp

blade on theirs. Why aren’t I pretty enough to be treated like the girls with the blonde

ponytails? Brown skin shined on by the sun. Curls and kinks that only reached my

shoulders on good days. I’d stay up all night straightening my hair; my hair is tame. Am

I pretty now? Erasing all the poetry that I had been gifted. My sentences were no longer

my own. Reducing the volume traveling from my vocal cords. Softer! Quieter! Whiter! I

still sound annoyed. Rough and monotone. Sound more enthusiastic. In these halls, I’m

invisible, annoying, loud, too quiet, too black, or “acting white.” On the stage, I’m a

promotion for diversity instead creativity. Trapped by glass walls in a museum of

unfamiliar faces watching this school tear me apart piece by piece to reconstruct me like

Frankenstein. Creating a Barbie version of me, when I was very clearly meant to be a

Bratz. Often, walking down the street is when I feel the prettiest. My personal runway

and the audience are filled with men three times my age barking and howling. Hitting

on someone that could be their daughter. Should I be ashamed?