74 MPH

By Rishika Tipparti

Words.

Only twenty six letters

In the English language

Form over 200,000 words.

When I was in 5th grade,

I read the dictionary cover to cover,

Drinking in word for word,

Because the melanin in my skin seemed to scream “ILLITERATE” to the outside world.

Because even if I’ve read the dictionary cover to cover

reciting spellings and definitions like a devoted lover

I’ll still be stupid

Because epi-tome is pronounced “epitome.”

Because even if I spend hours

Studying the way words weave themselves into stories of my ancestors

Who spoke in a tongue foreign to me today

The way my words wadded aimlessly in my mouth,

Tearing themselves up on the tip of my tongue,

Cry that I will never be enough.

Because why would the crisscrossing of inked words

Show on dark skin?

The world screams and calls me illiterate

Because even if I learn all the estimated 200,000 words in the English language,

Only two will suffice to define people like me:

“Limited value.”

She was a daughter, a student, a person.

A 23-year old Indian girl with dreams and a passion.

A person with a name. Jaahnavi Kandula.

She was killed by a car – a drunk police officer – going 74 miles per hour in a residential area.

“Just write a check – $11,000.”

Because to them, her blood and flesh and hopes and dreams

And all the memories she had with her loved ones

And all the memories she hoped to make in a lifetime

And the life that flashed before her eyes as she lay there on the road broken as the officer that was

supposed to protect her drove away

Were worth less than what you’d make in one year on minimum wage.

And I watched as the world moved on

Without a sound.

Because she was only one of many instances

Of collateral damage in this “great country.”

Words fail me.

Because our shed blood is only as important as a passing Instagram story.

Words fail me.

Because we both are the same, and yet somehow different.

Because if she had limited value, so do I.

Because others’ kids don't matter if they don't look like your own.

Do they?

Words fail me.

Because somehow, we don’t have the privilege of being individuals.

Words fail me,

Because how can they come out a mouth

Choking on a world’s worth of poison,

Naming us a nameless, faceless monolith,

As if we don’t feel love

Or joy

Or hope.

As if our hearts are filled with greed and as if our stomachs don’t feel hunger.

As if our parents don’t hold us close at night

And promise they’ll give us whatever they can salvage from this broken world.

As if they don’t have the right to.

As if our people still aren’t crawling their way out of the wreck of colonization.

As if we’re just statistics and scraps of a pie chart

And not living breathing humans with flesh and blood

That long for a spot at the table that we helped build.

As if we aren’t human.

And I find myself stumbling over my words rather than my feet

And feeling the heaviness of English textbooks in my stomach

As my rs start rolling as they tumble down my throat

Threatening to tear up my flow

And objectives – or was it adjectives?

And propositions – perhaps prepositions?

Dance in front of my eyes and out of reach.

And I can’t see as I drown inside your sea of preconceptions and prejudice

Because how can I find my sea legs

When I’m already sinking heart-deep in your quicksand of hate?

I hope the world knows that I’ve given it my all

Because when I look at my own face I see a stranger

I don’t know who I am or what I stand for

Because when you’re the American daughter of two Indian immigrants

And the Indian immigrant among your American friends

You don’t know where to stand

Or where even to stumble

Because if you misstep – misspeak – even once, you suddenly don’t belong.

Because if you misstep once,

You could find yourself in the path of hatred,

Because you are a mere silhouette

In the headlights of a drunk police officer’s speeding car.

And then you start to lose hope

Because words fail you so loud

You can’t scream for help

In even the quietest voice

As the pedestrian crossing blinks mockingly at you

Because you aren’t white enough to be seen in the dark.

Words fail me.

I fail to hope.

But here’s the thing about hope:

She’s not a fragile Porcelain doll.

She’s bruised knuckles and broken teeth

Spitting out blood and standing on scraped-up knees

Ready to fight once again.

Hope isn’t butterflies and rainbows.

Hope is the flightless bird

That sings like a canary in a coal mine

In hope that her broken wings aren’t torn off.

Because my words are laced with despair and bruises and scars

But more than them, hope.

The endless stream of hope

That feeds off the heat in my boiling blood

So the fire in my chest doesn’t burn me alive.

So I continue to speak

And say her name.

Say my name.

Say our names.

I continue to sing

And breathe

Shamelessly

Unapologetically

And feel love

And joy

And hope

Because no matter how much they dehumanize us

I will still have my soul

Dancing in my blood

Declaring how brazenly human I am

Even when it is spilled.

And I continue to write

And use the very words that cut deep and make me bleed

Because I know my words will survive me

Better than this system could ever protect me

Even if I’m hit by a police car

Going 74 miles per hour

In a residential area.

By Rishika Tipparti