I am a child of the Americas,

Proudly Raised in Bed-Stuy,

Do or Die.

 

My home is the home of Biggie and Jay-Z,

With a plethora of 99 cent stores,

And Caribbean vendors blasting reggae,

With West Indian flags laid out on their plastic folding tables along the Fulton Street sidewalk.

 

My home is the home of nail and hair salons,

With gossip wafting through the air,

And barber shops playing “old skool” hip-hop and R&B.

Hipsters and gentrifiers would witness an unprecedented familial bond,

Whether there are newcomers, old customers or total strangers,

Something you’d only experience at a black salon.

 

You’d see heads bobbing up and down to the rhythm, 

With an electric razor in one hand and the other on the customer’s head for support.

You’d see the customers relaxed in their black leather spin chairs,

laughing or dwelling about problems at home or at work.

 

My home is the also the home of this Brooklyn born island gyal.

A descendant of an immigrant from 

"The land of the flying fish" with dark, deep brown skin,

And a sandy beach toned Puerto Rican-American from Brownsville.

 

We are made of tropical breeze and crystal clear beaches,

Carnival costumes with sequins and feathers,

Stilt walkers and brightly painted homes,

That trace back to our indispensable African roots.

 

I wake up to the sweet sounds of calypso and soca,

Or the hip swaying rhythm of salsa,

Blasting through the speakers of my living room,

Letting me know it’s cleaning day.

 

My home is the home of bakes, 

Textured like pancakes but sweeter and thicker,

Fried flying fish between salt bread,

And golden fish cakes from Nostrand Avenue 

That my mom brings home after a long day of work.

But also the home of arroz con habichuela, devoured by my father,

And coquito in the fridge around Christmas time.

But my cinnamon skin transcends both cultures.

Curls too tight and nappy to be mixed.

Too light to be Bajan.

Too black to be latina,

Or I don’t speak “black” enough.

After years of trying to find my identity,

And what I can and can’t be,

I’ve realized I am everything I want to be.

 

I am a whole black girl from Bed-Stuy,

Nothing missing.

I am a whole latina,

No falta nada.

I am a whole West Indian girl,

Nothing missing either.

I am a descendant of an immigrant and a descendant of immigrants.

Not one or the other, but both.

I am the circumcenter of my African, Native and European ancestors

I am a child of the Americas.