My Ancestors Book
Written for my daughter in April of 2017. A reminder for her to always love the skin she is in, to never let her crown slip and always remember the greatness we are destined for. Spoken word poetry. This is NOT a “religious” poem. It is a poem about oppression of African Americans.
As I look in the mirror, the melanin in my skin enlightens me...
It entices me. To look back and find the book that my ancestors tried to write for me.
A book slave holders tried to hide from me.
They try so hard but they will NEVER stop the fight in me.
This book is written in the finest ink you could ever find...
a honey soaked blend of the blood my ancestors left behind.
They tell me to be brave, stand up, stay strong.
To unchain myself of the shackles that have been weighing on me for so long.
They tell me stories that have been muffled and disguised,
stories of oppression and pain that have been sugar coated right before our eyes.
They have cried for us, they have weeped for us.
They’ve even lost their sleep for us.
Their blood was spilled for us, and parents killed for us.
All for the lessons they have tried to instill in us.
Through these years of our oppression,
our people have been banished to the darkest trenches of depression.
But we CANNOT forget what lies within, the majestic soul beneath my skin.
My black is beautiful. My black is PASSION.
My black is powerful..... my black is MAGIC.
My black can shout with the force of 1,000 voices, while hushing the sounds of 1,000 noises.
Within a split second my black can capture your attention, like a photograph too beauteous to mention.
The glory and HONOR that comes with this ebony skin,
The envious man will try to convince us is a sin.
But the second you are pulled from your pedestal, the second you are YANKED from your thrown.
That envious man is waiting to claim it as home.
YOU SEE, he believes, “to elevate yourself you must tear someone else down...”
But that idiotic mindset is why his head is topped with a dunce cap, and not a crown.
These are the lessons my ancestors tried to teach me,
My pigment... seems to be the ONLY thing they were able to bequeath me.
Because somewhere down the road this book was lost..
lost like my lost children who are STILL paying that damn cost.
...
...
The sufferage of our people MAY be THAT MAN’S pleasure.
But never forget, one mans trash is Another’s Devine treasure.
About the Creator
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