Postcolonial Intimacies
4 min readSep 19, 2020

I dedicate this poem to professors.

Let’s dive in brilliant professor.


Won’t buy me food

Won’t buy me a home

Won’t feed my children

Won’t carve out a life among hearts of stone


Won’t coach me through writing a mauscript,

or increase my publications!

I mean for funding, imagine such a justification.

just saying for clarification


On job descriptions, I hate to tell

Brilliance isn’t an accepted qualification

For a new hire, with my origin, and accent

Brilliance turned out to be a bit of a hard sell!


I must say is an unrequired skill for those

who have merit

and heaps of privilege spill


Won’t show my intellect,

or convince my colleagues that I have some

Since having children in the academy

apparently diminishes a woman’s intellect to none


Won’t make me a more respected immigrant

It won’t make me sooth your ears with Standard English tones

or Dash my voice with an accent

more harmonious with your Xenophobic bones

So Dear White Professor


Won’t make me feel more powerful

or less scared

When in your silence,

and inaction

you give out in excess

such positive vibes

smearing inept

unworthy of access

on my entire educational progress


Won’t coach me through the ways you want me to write

Won’t make My English less broken

It won’t help you raise the base-line

You’ve already set it at inadequate.



Postcolonial Intimacies

I write drafts of poetry and short stories about language, education, and war