Roots

I come from the rough embrace of the south side of Chicago

I come from lounging at the President's pool,

from beds made out of dirty laundry,

from food stamps and gangs

houses bustling about with housekeepers and a nanny for each child

My soul is intertwined with stories no book could encase

My roots run deeper than any tree's -

I am a symphony of paradoxes, contradictions and juxtapositions,

harmonizing into my life's song;

I am music.

My mother grew up in Flint, Michigan,

where food stamps were as welcomed as dollars and houses were luxuries

Silver spoon in mouth,

my dad spent summers idly sunbathing at President Johnson's cottage -

riding purebred horses on his ranch.

Being a quarter African American,

I'm equal to if not lighter in skin tone than my very Dutch, suburban counterparts

With freckled cheeks and hair the color of ripened wheat

my mom refers to me as “summer incarnate” -

the warm colors of Indian Summer;

the paleness previously protected by straw hats and parasols.

I have always felt a stronger pull to the drums of Africa -

my father having never really been present in my life -

couldn’t they see that? 

See me?

I'm left tumbling down a rabbit hole of confusion; who am I?

I am both

I am both

Pulsing through my veins is the blood of my ancestors

whipped into slavery entwined with that of the slave owners themselves

I’m engulfed with an ache for rhythm,

strung through my bones are passionate hymns of following starlight

I am a melody of oxymorons meshing into my life's song;

I am a single thread with stitches sprawling across the world

woven into the tapestry of America,

I am music.