Yellow star girl
My question for the day
Observing myself sitting in a coal shoot
Quite certain of my purpose
Nazi hunter extraordinaire
Behind the lines
How a nine year old contented herself with gas chambers
With the mechanization of death by the train load
With row upon neat row of statistics
Glaring when the boy from 319 shouted out from across the street that the next stop was the ovens
Are yellow stars a visible manifestation?
As if sewn on a coat means sewn on one’s heart
Every throb of the blood a comingling of little yellow star shaped leukocytes and hemoglobin cells that tattoos the soul as so many yellow star shaped numbers on one’s forearm
A yellow starred half of me
Which makes her a yellow starred quarter of my mother and one sixteenth of my father
What is she?
Is she 5/16ths yellow star genes?
Or is the old adage—
The “you never know who the father is”
So that it isn’t so much blood
Isn’t so much what her DNA picture looks like
But the perception of the yellow stars on her forearm that invites a boy—any boy—
To shout out that it is her turn to march towards the ovens
To glean in an instant her 5/16ths
Her yellow star portion of the DNA pie
But maybe only Bergen/Belson for her and the cold, perpetually winterish shops of slave labor
Her facial features measured
Her blue eyes with yellow and grey undertones classified against an eye chart
The hmmm, not pure tsk that screams out yellow star, yellow star
Her dark blond hair shorn and thrown haphazardly into a pile
Her smile banished to another dimension
Her sadness gripping and overwhelming and yet tempered by a day-to-day life that might bring a simple kindness to remind her of what could be if only she perseveres
Yes, yes, little yellow starred one or green crescent one because, after all we are here now
Yes, yes little Yazidi girl with Christian blue eyes that tattoo her as fodder for the market—
No cooler to shelter her
No retreat anywhere
No other side of the street where she can stand menacingly tall with an “I dare you to cross” scowl that would frighten the boy shouting this way to the ovens enough to only dare bully her from afar
With no gun to embolden
No shiny SS bars or Caliphate’s black and white banner from which he could cross that street
When it would come to that one on one
Little yellow star girl and green crescent girl and Roma girl and Yazidi girl can stand tall and proud
And have super powers
And be brave
And stand her ground on her side of the street
Her dukes at the ready as it should be, but never is.
– Malissa Smith (c) 2015
Tagged: brave girls, Caliphate, DNA, gas chambers, girlboxing, inspirational, musings, nazis, poetry, prejudice, prose, racial purity, religion, SS, tattoos, Yazidi, yellow star Girlboxing! The wit and wisdom of the ring!
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