In honor of International Women’s Day, I rummaged through my writings this morning for something to represent how I’m feeling today.

I decided to share my lame attempt at rap.

You Don’t Know Me

You don’t know me. All you know is what you see.

I found out two decades ago that my father was a Syrian Jew. He went by Christian, but his mother was the Jew who birthed a swarthy Syrian man, both of whom I never knew.

According to my mom, he was a hitman and gangster-bad, so bad he couldn’t be a good dad. But not that long ago, I met his other kids, and they turned out fine, unlike me, who got sexually assaulted by that pedophile step-relative of mine.

I saw that some of you winced. Yeah, it’s been rough being me. I grew up in a cockroach-infested tenement, but that’s not what you see.

All you see is bright white, so you see easy. But my life was never easy or bright. I feel your pain, but you don’t feel the same for me because you’re too busy making your assumptions about what white is supposed to be.

I’m not even white; remember, I’m one-half Syrian Jew. I’m half-brown, but I’m not brown enough for you, which is why you screamed in my face today that I’m nothing but a white, privileged baby-killing Jew.

And FYI, plenty of Jews aren’t white, but you don’t see that either. You’re as bad as those KKK whities who think every Jew is a tighty colonial miser. And I don’t live in Israel, okay? I’m a hard-working, tax-paying citizen of the U.S. of A.

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but you think I hate you because you hate me, even though we come from the same kind of barely-surviving family.

But all you see is that I dress so pretty and speak so nice; you don’t know that the snapping of the traps kept me up all night, breaking the necks of the rats and the mice.

I speak so nice-white because my teenage mother was afraid that if her rich boyfriend found out that we were gutter girls on top of being poor, he would have slammed our faces flat against the wrong side of the money door.

So, she sent me, her awkward black sheep, to charm school at night to learn diction and how to be a proper lady, so, yeah, I learned to walk and talk just right. But don’t F with me because the projects, the rats, the roaches, and the mice will seep right out of me, and I’ll give you one stark-crazy hell of a fight.

Growing up, my little body lacked food, and it was full of hungry white worms, but I’m not telling you this to make you squirm. I’m just trying to help you to see that you don’t know anything about me.

All you see is white; you don’t see my trials, my tribulations, and my messed-up strife. Like you, I’ve been jumping through hoops to prove myself to rich white people my entire life.

I get you, but you don’t get me; you’ve got no clue. You think I’m fancy pants, but oh no, I’m not, not with the crazy shit that I’ve been through.

So, take another look because sometimes what you see isn’t what you get, and what you think you get about white isn’t always true.

So, take another look. Do you still see white? Oh yeah, I see you looking at me with a new eye. Don’t worry. I’m not judging you. It’s alright.

Because I think you’re finally getting my point—that there are many shades and grades of white, and being a Jew. Now that I’ve told you just a little bit about the hell that I’ve been through, I can see I’ve got you thinking that I might be more like you than you.

“This is a man’s job,” he spewed with arrogant confidence.

“This business is dominated by us,” he boasted.

“What can you bring to the table?” he asked.

Answer him wisely. The power is in his hands. A man’s table? A man’s world?

Alpha men—born from women.

Amid hurdles and miracles, the egg lies in wait.

Out of millions, one male cell finds its way in.

The weakling girl transforms. Now she’s the protector—the one in charge.

She discovers the beginning is the hardest. The most challenging. The riskiest.

She’s unnerved but undaunted. She monitors and delights in quickening,

an awakening, a flutter, and then a forceful kick.

Inner strength and power reveal themselves from deep within.

Patiently waiting for months and months while nourishing and supporting, discovering that

life is resilient and sacrifice is quiet, she finds the courage to labor, push, and deliver.

She is bolstered by the belief that survival is key—reassured that anything is possible.

When the miracle arrives, she makes a promise to crack and shatter.

First, the table, then the world.