Staring out into the crowd from coat check, all I see are white people. So. Many. White. People.

White and pale like lutefisk.

White so normalized, home feels different.

White like the snow you’ve been begging for.

White like papers strewn across my desk.

White like my skin, summer tan fading.

White like passing for Norwegian.

White like cotton t-shirts.

White like piano keys, all natural.

White like a yeti, terrifying.

White like bed sheets, until I bleed on them.

White like coloring pages, until I fill them.

White like my empty hands, until I shake someone else’s.

White like popcorn, until I coat it with butter or caramel.

White like plastic bags, until I ask for paper.

White like marshmallows, until I roast them.

White like whipped cream, until I stir it into hot chocolate.

White like these walls, until I paint them.

White like eggs, until I break them.

White like the White House, until I voted a black man into it.

White like erasers, until I write in pen.

White like my shoes, until I beat the pavement.