You asked me to be different.
More like you.
My people asked me to be more.
More like them.
I am at odds with my frustrations.
Angry with the hand I've been dealt and the judgements that come my way because of what I had to do to survive and do it the right way...
How dare you?
You make me out to be the villain to protect your vain and uneducated perceptions of what I can and can't be.
I feel sorry for you.
Lost in yourself and incapable of understanding that your disdain for me is nothing but a reflection of your own internal tragedy.
I fought. I bled. I cried. I sweat. I nearly died for this shot.
For this opportunity.
I am who I am.
I am who I chose to be.
Born and raised Indian.
First-generation.
I adapted so I could survive.
I don't ask for permission no more.
I earned this.
And for the first time, I don't need you or anyone to make me feel like I deserve it.
There is a wide array of parts that make up who I am.
Some people hate it.
Some people love it.
I want to be put in the ground knowing one thing for sure.
No matter if they loved me or hated me... they damn well certainly respected me.
My fortitude.
My ambition.
My unending passion.
The joy that makes no sense.
You can love me... you can hate me...
I expect both and one more than the other.
I rest in blessed assurance that one day, I will stand at the gates of heaven having lived the life that God had for me and know for certain that who I was and who I chose to be was exactly the best he had for me.
I don't have to be you.
I don't want to be like the crowd.
I don't desire to be loved.
I want one thing.
To live out my days in service of everything but myself... and in doing so, I will have found peace.
I don't need to talk like you, walk like you, act like you.
I am who I chose to be.
No longer out of a need to survive but out of the desire to live out who I was fashioned to be.
Beautifully and wonderfully made and not of this world.
Yours faithfully,
Qavah.
Commenti