In Nairobi, African women with bead necklaces
draped over their dark arms approach me.
"Are you American," they ask
without even hearing my voice.
They do not need an accent
to confirm their categorization.
My white skin, my blue jeans,
my tennis shoes, my pony tail
are enough to mark me
as not just foriegn, but American foriegn.
I am not afraid to walk these streets.
Perhaps because I am 14 and a country girl
not yet indocrinated to fear the streets,
to fear dark skin, even in daylight.
By 22 I will be afraid of the dark everywhere.
I will walk at night keys in the palms of my fist
each one sticking out between two fingers.
"Yes, I am American."