Halves And Quarters And Sixty-Fourths

Most people who meet me, if they don't give me the old chestnut of "You don't look Kurdish", assume I'm only partly Kurdish. Schrodinger's Kurd, quite literally. A white-passing Olive Skindinavian.

And given how little I know about my bio family, how much of what I do know was written by journalists in need of cold hard cash...it might be true. 

But what it would mean is that my dad was an overweight delinquent who smoked too much weed, ended up in care, did tricks with knives and used enough hair gel to spontaneously combust.

It would mean he did something to a girl who wasn't Kurdish. It would mean there was truth in the trope of the violent father figure. It would explain why I can't see him--because he died in 2014 while I was navigating health problems, sexuality and secondary school at a school I didn't want to go to but didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. 

The world is not on our side. But the world will only abandon us until we can prove to it that we deserve more than abandonment. I got in touch with a cousin the other day. Her cousin has blonde hair and blue eyes. 

An afterword.

Resist police brutality.