I live in between spaces.
The borders between nations, the invisible hyphen between words, the wide chasm between “one of us” and me alone.
French American.
Indian American.
Muslim American.
Biracial. Interfaith. Child of immigrants.
A Parisienne for one month a year: the month when all the other Parisians flee the city.
A girl staring at her phone screen, looking for love but knowing it’s not going to show up.
I didn’t choose any of this. Which is not to say I wouldn’t have, given the opportunity. But it’s not like I ever had the option.
I don’t even get a say in my diminutives. It’s always “Frenchie” or “la petite Américaine.”
The people who can’t guess what I am think I’m “exotic.” Some people say I’m lucky to be an ethnomorph—a person whose brown skin, brown hair, and brown eyes make it seem like I could be from half the countries in the world. But I’m not a passport that everyone gets to stamp with a label of their choosing. Others look at me and try to shove me into their own narrative to define who and what I am. But I’m not a blank page that everyone else gets to write on.
I have my own voice.
I have my own story.
I have my own name. It’s Khayyam.