There was a day.
When I felt ashamed to be me.
As sad as that sounds.
It’s part of the story.
I’ve come to respect these blended roots,
I used to shun.
Because I was afraid to feel.
I think this is why we all reject the blended truth.
The pain is too great.
I can see the dark-skinned mothers of my lineage.
Who birthed ghost babies.
Children they’d never hold, kiss, or comfort.
Singing empty lullabies in the fields
The deepest blue alive.
Ode to the Native women.
With flowing raven hair.
That blended and nurtured.
My fathers fathers.
Behold! A generation.
That would never know their names.
The struggle was their reality.
Some days I still fight the shadows.
And to all the ladies.
Fine and fair as cream.
Taking their rightful place in my past
Shining in the green eyes and fair skin of my own son.
It makes me think of them all.
Almost with a sense of longing.
To know them and hear their stories.
And I can.
When I hold my little boy.
Or when I watch him sleeping.
With enkindled peace.
I’m moved in the seat of my soul.
That my present.
Was their future.
It’s all come full circle.
My Grandmother says, it’s how it has always been.
It’s the way it will always be.
In our family.
Black, Red and White.
It’s the reason.