When I see the generational oppression of Black and Brown people, I’m angered. I rage. I used to run from anger because I didn’t think it was a “right” emotion, now I allow it to course through me.
Anger is a powerful medicine. The rage of my ancestors still speaks. I let them speak. My ancestors rage not in order to inflict harm, but so that I, their daughter, can see the world as it truly is.
The world is oppressive.
The world feels threatened by Blackness.
The world is harmful and violent and grievous and wearisome. The world would rather destroy what my ancestors have built, not build upon it.
It is. Let it be.
Ancient anger runs through my veins. I weep. My bones grieve.
I hide myself in my people’s song, and I heal.
I heal away from oppression. Away from warped perceptions of Blackness. Away from harm and violence and grievousness and weary, worrisome dealings.
As the melody of my people’s song washes over me, I gather the puzzle pieces of my Black-Yellow-Brown self, and I create something that isn’t identical to my ancestors’ beginnings. Beginnings can never begin again.
I piece together something that isn’t the result of living in a perfect world. Perfection can never be.
I piece together something altogether different. It’s the Ancient in Me. I piece together We.
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