Yellow Buttercup

By Alysa Suleiman

She is called: the yellow flower.

Standing alone, facing a garden of uniform white roses perfectly manicured.

Her mother longs for her own field back in her original home, close to the humid rice paddies, sweet smelling jasmine bushes, and ponds perfumed with the lotus flower.

Her father bears the weight of an accent, kindly accepted by them here, yet chortled at and teased, too, behind his back.

She has grown up in this country. They call it America, the land of freedom, equality, fairness.

Yet, she does not feel free, equal, fair.

Foreign to her homeland and un-native to her birth country, she is isolated, caught in a between-worlds.

She is floating around unattached, swirling like the gurgling river that separates the rose garden from her buttercup field, where thousands of buttercup seeds have taken root and sprung their own “yellow” ghetto, not worthy enough to take part in the high society of those pristine, pure cream-white, original roses.

As she learns more about the country her mother and father come from, she learns to accept and appreciate and love this culture, her culture, a part of her.

Still, it has taken many years for the rose garden to accept and even appreciate their diversity, the differently sweet scent that the buttercups bring.

But some white roses still dislike her and dislike her people, their “yellow-skinned” petals.

Jokes about their tiny eyes, nerdy brains, heavy accents. They permeate and sift through the cracks in the air, mixing the sweet with a rancid undertone.

They are rude and unforgivable, but no one takes them seriously, right?

Even herself, and many of her own “yellow” petaled friends, her own type of people who, like her, took seed and sprouted in this new country, are accustomed to the joking, and joke just the same amongst themselves and their friends.

After all, she is still the “yellow” buttercup amongst the white roses, the red headed poppies, the black dahlias, the brown orchids.

They are all different, all accepting, their baby buds see the world differently than their mother flowers. But they all still have so much more to learn, to grow, to discover, as they spread their unfurling leaves out to the waiting sun.

Now, she herself is filling out, desperately pulling against the howling wind that threatens to tear her two halves apart.

She wishes to be represented, her culture, an entity accepted and joined with all flowers, free and equal and fair, not only on the surface but deep within all their roots as well.

She wishes not to be “Yellow Buttercup” upon first sight, but Buttercup. Never just, or labeled, or joked on, but a real, whole Her.

She is. Flower.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alysa Suleiman is a sophomore in high school from California. Ever since she was at a young age, Alysa has enjoyed writing in all forms and currently loves to experiment with different styles of poetry to express her thoughts and emotions. Outside of the writing world, she enjoys spending time with her family, friends, and two dogs.  

RELATION TO THEME - FAMILY

I believe that my piece Yellow Buttercup connects well to this volume's theme of family because the piece pays homage to family and how family shapes who I am as a person. Although the buttercup in the poem finds it difficult to live in a world where there is still inherent bias towards her own "type" of flower, she learns to stand tall and build herself from the hardships and matters that her parents experienced. She is the newest generation, changing the world for the better.