My mother talks fondly about our black roots, She discusses the pain and what should’ve killed them. She talks about the inventions that we use everyday but take for granted. she emphasizes how we molded this country. I can hear the disgust in her voice as she talks about what the white people did to our people. stripped our kings and queens of their crowns, raped our women, and beat our children for entertainment. she tells us to never forget how beautiful our skin is. Be prideful but hide ourselves in fear of those trying to break us down.

I know that I am black, but when others look at me it’s as if they can smell the other side of my genes. my father speaks nothing of his Spanish nationality, leaving me confused. The thickness of my hair, big doe eyes and the give away of my last name. my last name leaves questions, my starvation for knowledge of my other half. I feel like a tee starting to break free from the soil.

my roots are buried into the grown… while the other half is exposed to the air