Native Skin

Who’d know the color of my skin presents so much ambiguity in society? A different angle in the light of the city What am I today? For the historic family trees of America remain hallow at my name. Many things tempt me, but to whom do I belong? My natural attraction to the pungent smell of the fried chicken and catfish joint on the corner, the natural squint of my eyes as I skim through the menu, or the enunciation I use as I voice my order? What about that deprived women with multiple coarse-haired children? Or that professional woman with straight black hair who has no children? I see them walking simultaneously with a mixed women who has two children, and both came from her womb, however, they are colors of opposite sides of the spectrum. As I walk past they all give a brief glance my way and became puzzled by what I truly am. What is my last name? Where am I from? My parents? …Black. BLACK? Does my race change my definition, lady liberty? Of whom all immigrants, refugees, peddlers, stockbrokers, and janitors of blue and white collar rest underneath the flame of your pit! She should be thanking me. Asking me! For although my parents are black, my grandparents and their ancestors were pure natives of the Americas. So I ask you. A reader possessing every moral relation I've conveyed. I, a young female barring native skin nor black or white. To whom do I belong? What am I?