I Don’t Know My Ancestors

I said, I don’t know my ancestors.

I know them in the context of others’ eyes.

I know them for their power, strength, and resilience.

I know them for their dedication and essence.

But I do not know them by name.

Knowing of my father’s father and his before him,

Or my mother’s mother, and hers before her,

Does not mean I know my ancestors.

A DNA test may provide me with a breakdown.

A percentage. A region. An ethnic origin.

But it’s missing the generational trauma

And the names that were erased.

However, I’m supposed to feel whole.

How can I be?

Who is the man that raped one of my greatest

Ancestors who was traced within the lineage of my father?

Who are you, white man?

Did she, the bearer of your children, know your name?

Did she refer to you as master?

Did you care one bit about her culture or language?

Who is that wondrous woman whose mitochondrial

Link brought me back home from where I was kidnapped?

What was your faith, your religion, your spiritual practice?

Did you manifest me into existence?

Am I of a tribe that was almost forgotten?

Who are those who endured through the brutality

Of whiteness and a false sense of superiority within the sea of mediocrity?

Those who were made into receipts, bills, and caricatures?

Those who had to bear the weight of the projections

Of other’s self-hatred and insecurities?

Those who had to endure the unchecked inhumane

Treatments of their bodies for the sake of profits?

What are your names?

Your stories have been untold and unheard.

For those who understand and see your struggles,

We can only generalize your pain.

But there is no pain as harmful as being brutalized

Throughout your life and then forgotten.

What are your names? What are your stories?

I wish to know my ancestors.

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