Being Romani is more than how my pots are arranged in the kitchen, like warring factions of iron separated for all eternity;
It’s more than my long hair; long skirts; and sky-blue headscarves that cling to my braids like a mother to her children.
It’s more than how I cook my food; how I lay my table; and the name I call my God.
Being Romani is more than the jewelry I wear or the layers of my name sitting silent in my heart.
It’s more than my favourite songs; sayings; poems.
It’s more than Herdeljezi, Karačoňa, or Patraďi.
Being Romani is more than history; more than blood; more than words on a page.
You can’t pretend,
you can’t become.
You just are.