Page 42 of The Black Flamingo

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What’s it like to survive death through

your work?

What’s it like to not know your father

but still know yourself?

One lunchtime in B24, Daisy and I

share cold but tasty shepherd’s pie

from my black Tupperware box.

I ask Daisy, “Why do you say you’re white?

Are you ashamed of being mixed?”

Daisy snaps back:

“My mum is mixed

but she doesn’t even say so.

She’s only talked to me about it once.

I’ve never met her Jamaican family.

I’m not ashamed but I have nothing

to claim, nothing handed down to me.

It’s not something people can see

to look at me; maybe if I’m with my mum

but I never am. On my own

I just look like a white girl with a tan

and that suits me just fine, I don’t want

to explain myself to people. I’ve seen

how you have to do it. How people ask

you questions like they have the right

to see your family tree. I don’t want that.

I just want to be me.”

I don’t want to make her any more angry,

so I don’t say,You’re hiding

a part of yourself.

Coming Out

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