A Black American

We think that we have come far, but how far is 155 years?

How far from MLK, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X? 

How far from fire hoses, and unleashed dogs, and hanging trees hidden behind the fog?

How far from barbaque postcards with strange fruits and hooded men?

How far have we actually come?

Nowadays it feels as though freedom is a fight we would all like to believe is won,

but as I stand here in unchemically processed hair,

a product from ancestors dragged into foreign to live in captivity

a product of brown sugar and honey.

I will stand strong and firm because my parents did not fight for themselves.

My ancestors did not fight for their freedom.

And I am not going walk back and let all of the fighting and bloodshed go in vain.

For I am my ancestor's wildest dream.

For even if I did not witness slavery,

even though it is a thing of the past,

I will not forget,

I will not get over it. 

Slavery is history embedded deep into my bones,

melted over the coating of my skin.

I am black,

but I am also an American.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country

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