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Mixed Race.

by E.A. Wilcox 26 days ago in slam poetry

So what are you exactly?

Mixed Race.
Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Mixed Race

We are suffering the consequences and cancelation of our ancestors. Suffering, hurting and need reparations. We want justice but we need justice from ourselves.

Slaughtered with clean bloody hands. We’re part predator and prey.

Crucify the colonizer inside you. Die to self they say. Celebrate the heritage and culture. Figure out where you stand in your inner oppressed melee.

You’re part devil and angel. You’ve got locks and keys. Barred up prisons and free open valleys.

We don’t fit in the middle, to the left or to the right. We speak a third culture language that’s not yours or mine.

You’ve got no voice one way or the other. You are either appropriating, assimilating or hushing your fathers.

We’re the captors, the captured and the refugees. Singers and songwriters, dancers and beheaders.

We’re not the enemy, the friends, we’re just social fodder. Painted faces at midnight, pitchforks, and torches no longer.

We’re okay with this. We’re not okay with that. If you’re mixed race you’re one of them or you’re one of us.

We can celebrate our ancestors. We can sing the songs of woeful pasts but we cannot sing the victories of shameful class.

We can harbor pride and tears from our mothers but we cannot put our chins up and look up to our fathers.

Reconcile what we never did. Reconcile what we’ve done. Reconcile with our friends and foes. Reconcile with our blood and our bones.

Reconcile with our families and friends. Reconcile what we cannot own. Reconcile the songs of woes.

Reconcile our blood and bone.

Bow down our wicked bloody pasts. Left hand washed white as snow and the right a reminder of who we never were. What we’ve come from and where we cannot go.

Bow down our weapons and our hearts. Bow down our words. Bow down our heads and our hands.

Headdresses and cattle prongs - lay them down, lay them down, lay them down.

Mixed up in it generations later. Hundreds and thousands of years after. Mixed up in the modern, digital battleground. Mixed up in humility and pride. Mixed up in thunder and lightning. Mixed up in the cleansing rains.

We’re mixed. Mixed up in not enough apologies. Mixed up with not enough just ideologies.

All mixed up with beauty. All mixed up many. Paying the consequences no parole. Mixed up in all this non-amnesty.

All mixed up in delicious flavors. In art, music and dance. We’re mixed up from the ground up. A many many things. Mixes, mutts mestizo.

Mixed race brethren.

slam poetry

E.A. Wilcox

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E.A. Wilcox
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