My People.

My people, my race, my heritage. 
I am a rapist. I am a drug addict. I am good for nothing alcoholic
That is how one person labeled all of my people. 
My ancestors. 
I thought when my ancestors moved here, they did it for us
 For the future generation of our family. 
So we could live free.
 So we didn't suffer the way they suffered. 
They wanted us to become something. 
They moved here with intentions of working.
 They worked hard each day to maintain the family.
 To help us be free. But, apparently that was wrong
Apparently we raped the people that where here.
 We brought drugs to people we didn't know.
 We drank and sat on our asses as we watched the white folk work.
 I forgot. We didn't do shit, but pass out on our yards and rape the city people.
 I forgot we came here to be some lazy immigrants.
 I forgot that those who fucked up can give one race a bad label.
 I thought this place was supposed to be a free country, but you still tell my people that we must go back because this is not our land. 
This is not our country. 
It is not our heritage. 
When clearly this land is not our land nor yours. It is those who lived here before. 
The ones you killed, the ones you pushed back, the ones you tricked. 
It was their land before yours. Before anyones. 
Don't come to tell me that I must go back to my country because of my race, don't be offended if I tell you the same. 
This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741