Speak, Daughter

I was my mother’s daughter,

Long before I would become

My father’s voice.

The women in my family,

Carried a history of oppression

In the marrow of their bones,

Made too small by the hands of men,

Made too rough by the ache

Of children born too early,

And years lost to toiling away

In search of better days.

The men in my family,

Carried a history of subjugation

In their blood.

Skin too dark, hands too rough

They were children that were forced

To grow too quickly, too meanly

When he was born, the world

Had looked at him and saw

Something small and gentle

And took from him what it could,

What it wanted

What it did not deserve.

He saw for himself what violence

Had wrought, had seen death

Before he would ever love.

How he survived it all,

I will never know.

When he met my mother,

I like to think it healed him

Just enough — this love

That they had

For his eyes to soften

And his hands to unclench

I was my mother’s daughter

Down to the skin of my bones

Made hard by a history

I never witnessed but still carried

Between clenched teeth

And sharp eyes

But my words —

They had always belonged to him,

To my father.

I did not know it at the time,

That each word that left my mouth,

Be it spiteful or vindictive,

Empowering or enlightening,

Had always been his

— what he could never speak

In those days spent away

From his family, his home,

Never knowing what the next day

May bring.

I became my father’s daughter

The same way I became my mother’s

— I carried a history of oppression

Never witnessed, never experienced

But burdened nonetheless.

My mother taught me

That in our blood there lived

A flame,

And iron, a will to survive

Beyond any means

And my father taught me

To speak for peace.