Race

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The radio plays with the horrors of recent news.

I hear a question that rambles through my body.

What is race? They talk on but all I catch is the question.

In a moment of inspiration, I hear a quiet answer.

It may be my only answer.

Race is your ancestors staking their claim.

Strutting their pride, proof of their struggle.

We are the evidence they lived.

The same ones who survived the unsurvival.

The laborer who worked leaving blood on the field,

The immigrants, the explorers, the slaves, the soldiers

They are counting on us

A few left land and jewels, others more questionable choices

But that is the least of the inheritance.

Look deeply into a mirror.

The generosity of your nose, freckles on a cheek,

The knobby knee, that thick thigh they whisper.

The funny laugh, the color of each eye, they are here.

The mother starved to feed a tiny replica,

He lived to be a grandfather many times forgotten.

They both live on in us.

No murmur today they shout, we were here.

We worked, fought, struggled, died

We live in your story, to make the original you.

Look up as the hopes and dreams wash over.

With their stories in us, on our faces, our bodies, our spirit

The strength in our character,

the fight in the soul gifted from before

The lives may have ended, but they left something behind

It’s you, it’s me

A heavy burden to deserve their pride

We each live a story, but none of us are alone.

They are here, in our race, on our face, throughout our existence.

We each live a story, but none of us are alone.

They are here, in our race, on our face, throughout our existence.

We will soon leave it for the ones who come after

Praying they celebrate who they are made from

And they remember who loves them

On both sides of the bridge.

 

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