Who...
Who am I?
This one unborn among the countless who have stood their trials and tried the fires of hell
This one wo walks daily in the shoes of privilige bought by the blood of those before her
This one who owns no path no heritage no culture
This one born to die and dying to be born.
Who...
Who am I?
Running bare foot through cow fields in seventh generation clothes
Bucketing water from the creek to bath to eat to do the daily chores
Playing in the buckets happily collecting rusty water from the trailer roof
Diving in and out of debris piles littering the fields and yards
Eying in open-mouthed hunger and anticipation the day's sole meal--fried potatoes, cornbread, beans, and a slab of bacon.
Who...
Who am I?
With no place to call my own
Remembering the multitudes marching down the street singing their soul-songs
Their freedom and equality songs
Their this land is our land songs
Their sorrow songs and their peace songs.
Crying tears over those who stand with ribs showing high against sunken bellies
Standing in piss and shit and puke and mud and blood
Watching friends, family, brothers in sufferage be lead to their death
Be killed before thier eyes.
Standing in baffled confusion and chaos with those who have put new foot on fresh soil
And have left behind culture, family, language, comfort, familiarity
For this new breed of life called America.
Who...
Who am I?
When all I have to speak of my culture are the values and morals I stand with
The tattered memories I house
The sunken ghost ship echoes of dim and far off places I once called home.
When all I have to speak of the culture I now embrace is a beaten-down medicine bag
The war-drums of my ancestors and the cries of my brethren beating a hollow tattoo in forgotten chambers of the mind
An ill-used pride bracelet and a plain band that speaks of the promise I made to another womyn
A fierce loyalty and determined love for that womyn
Who...
Who am I?
This one who has seen the oppression of gender
This one who was born in that class of peoples who cry every night for the broken pride
That lay hands upon their loved ones
And drown their sorrows in a bottle and cigarettes
Because they will never know different
And they will never be free
