by Goldie

Am I african american,
Or am I black,
Does it matter when others begin to attack,
When my mind is berated with verbal abuse,
Neither one of these descriptions is put to use,
Why is it when we visit the land of old,
We are looked at as if we sold our soul.
Why is it when our ancestors visit the states,
It becomes so hard  for them to relate,
Our legacy bonds us as sisters and brothers,
But sisters and brothers should understand each other,
As we cash in our culture,
In a store or small stand,
But have no idea about life in this land,
So I'll be here waiting,
For my debt to be paid,
In the form of some answers to the mess that's been made,
So people who are alike in so many ways,
Can look into each others eyes and not be in a daze,
And our future as one can finally  be etched in stone,
As we stand hand in hand and know that we are home.

I sat down with a brother in the air force who is from Senegal and he
Broke down some things that I wasn’t aware of. These words are fresh
Out the oven.peace!!

Kinfolk? by Goldie

© Copyright 1998. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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