The Lies That Made Me: The Invention of Belonging.

I gaze into the mirror and see a face the colour of coffee brown.
I feel uncomfortable, uneasy—because for so long, I believed I was white.
I grab a cloth and begin polishing the mirror, but no matter how hard I try,
the “stain” remains.
Perhaps if I wish hard enough, I can will that stain away?
Confusion rises, and I slip instantly into denial.

“You’re one of us,” I hear them say—
as if not being “one of us” is something shameful.
What did my people do that was so wrong?
What made me believe I should alienate myself from who I am?
How can someone feel shame for something they never understood
and were never guilty of?

As I move through adolescence, a backstory forms—
a “new self” assembled piece by piece.
I’m not sure it’s convincing, yet it consumes my entire being.
Life’s lessons fade into the background,
pushed aside in favour of this convoluted train of thought.
My academic focus falls away;
there is room only for denial and dishonesty.

Over the years, I start fitting into this “new self” with more ease,
yet the fit is never quite right.
Like a catwalk model, I own an array of costumes—personalities—
a rail full of hangers from left to right.
Each hanger holds a mood, a manner;
I am the master of adaptation.
Hyper-vigilant.
Constantly afraid.

You made me this way—you, White New Zealand.
I want to be you, to share your values—
but at what cost?
Why can’t I simply be myself?

I laugh at your jokes, and the guilt cuts deep.
You accept me only because I am not who I say I am.
Because I have buried the truth.

Because I have become a fraud.