Tuesday, November 12, 2013

When I Was One

I am not sure how they remained so nice:
The women of color who, their sons, sacrifice,
To continue the sacred lines of their ancestors,
Knowing that whites think we're their betters.

Isn't it time that we stop trying to "pass"
For people who ruled with fear in our pasts?
My heritage has been so hidden from me
That "white" is all that other people see.

As an elder said, while in sacred circle,
We're all indigenous; that's the miracle.
I spent my life feeling African and Jew,
But I have shared this with only a few.

Is it my ancestors reaching out to me,
Or is it their strength that I clearly see?
I can't walk on ground that I don't know,
So to bond to the people of today I go.

There were some mothers of color there,
Who, their pain for their children, did share.
In their countries of origin, children are raped;
We slaughter their youth, in The United States.

We say we all hunger when they are starving.
What action do these impassioned words bring?
We could form a society of "other mothers"
To share resources with our dark sisters and brothers.

My children are grown, but I have the will,
To share my power and self, justice to instill.
I will be an avenging angel to another's son,
As my brown mother was to me at the age of one.

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