The British Museum

by Eva Rami

 

It’s dark in the British Museum.
The halls are empty, and I take advantage of
the late night desertion. My footsteps echo
As I weave through the labyrinths of rooms and corridors,
Until I stop in front of a glass mantle, atop which sits
A jewel. It’s red like a ruby, or maybe blood,
And reflects my eyes which in turn reflect the wrinkles of my mother. The lines that
weave their own maze through my mother’s cheeks, Were mirrored on the cheeks
of her mother, and her mother before that. It’s not seen as a nuisance in India, Mama
says.
Wrinkles are a sign of Womanhood.

It’s dark in the British Museum,
But the glass boxes reflect a glare onto the wall,
And I stop to inspect the framed portraits. All doe-eyed
With pursed lips and crossed hands, and smooth faces. All white. On the
opposite wall are the paintings of people who share
My skin. Their features are contorted, their bodies portrayed
With hunched backs and their teeth, sharp fangs. I straighten my back And run my
tongue along the bottom ridges of my straight teeth. I do not want to look like
the people in those paintings.
I lace my fingers and purse my lips, and try to look as doe-eyed as possible. But I know,
that when the cameras lining the walls capture my frame, They will only see the brown fanged
monster, no matter how smooth my skin is.

It’s dark in the British Museum,
And I turn back to the ruby or blood red jewel.
My fingernails pierce my palms as I curl my hands into
Fists. The glass shatters when my punch collides, and my knuckles bleed Red like
the jewel. Security makes themselves known then, rushing in And pointing their metal
weapons at me. I stand, arms held up, The blood jewel clasped in my hand.
Tonight, again, a brown girl’s blood will be shed for her jewel. The white men will shoot me
twice then, and leave my body bleeding. Overnight, my cheeks will grow their own patterns of
wrinkles, Because this is the blood that a Brown Girl bleeds to be inducted into Womanhood. It
doesn’t flow from her uterus yet, but instead from a bullet wound.
One that she got trying to reclaim the bloody jewel
That was crafted by the wrinkled hands of her foremothers And stolen
by the White Man.

The next morning, the British Museum will open a new exhibit. Come see!
Indian girl and her blood red jewel. Rare.
Straight from India, but much better, here in our stunning glass case. Watch their pitiful
forms and allow them to poke at your tear ducts Just enough for you to call yourself
sympathetic, but don’t worry About braving the trash streets of India. See it instead
amongst the civilized, And watch her blood drip slowly on our ivory floors,
right here in the British Museum.

 

 

Eva Rami is a current ninth grader Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts. She likes writing poetry and prose and is often inspired by her experiences and ancestry. In her free time, Eva enjoys playing harp, attempting to bake, and trying to look mysterious at art museums.