Written in May 2022 for LTCS 130 — Transnational Feminisms — during my junior year. I signed up for the course to fulfill a graduation requirement. I made a poetry book for the final project instead of writing a paper, drawing from Grace Cho's memoir Tastes Like War and from my own life as a first-generation Indian-American. The "book" has three poems — one about familial pressure and the cost of questioning your own history, one about emotional residue and hidden bruises, an

The turmeric stain seeped into the fibers of a white cotton shirt hugging the ridges and hollows of her hourglass frame. It threatened the fragile peace of starch-white against almond skin. The shroud hid the pores of salt and spice and blinded lentil eyes with the stark weight of realism in a surreal world of freedom.

I am more than my culture yet I am nothing more than my culture The British arrived and left But forgot to take their sneers with them The Americans fought and conquered But forgot the people of this land We came We saw And we resigned ourselves to living A lie fabricated Designed to fit snugly A white mask, textbook hidden behind Shaking our heads Yes, no, and something in between