I see a Diaspora set in motion.
I see it in the refugees that swarm shores only to be pushed away.
In their hands held palms up,
A backpack strapped tight, and a lost childs toy.
Syria is the new victim.
'History repeats itself' professors whisper.
I sit in a classroom and debate
what a Diaspora is,
something that has a meaning that is forever evolving
but staying the same.
I am not a true child of a diaspora,
I look at my skin and I'm ashamed of my history.
I'm ashamed of each person who claims that this skin has had a diaspora.
I've never seen the face of a slave,
but I've seen their descendents.
Strong and still resiliant, toiling still in a white mans world.
A world that should except them for every truth and flaw,
not discard them or steal their belongs and call them theirs.
I can not claim a diaspora,
I would not want to anyways.
I see friends who cry out
for an identity, for a sure history that they will never have.
I see friends cry out for isreal and a clan of people they have never met.
I cry for nothing for I am sure in myself, in this skin I carry.
Still though I am ashamed.
I see history repeat itself,
and I can do nothing to stop it.
I see a diaspora set in motion,
like a wave crashing on the shore.