Part 1

MORIBAYASSA

I often think about my ancestors

wondering if they knew of the path that I will take

knew of me.

I think about their visions

their truths as they walked shackled to one another

onto a boat that will carry them to a land

where generations to come will always be seen as slaves.

Am I seeing their visions?

Thoughts of life in Africa appearing in my mind whenever I think of a possible future

where I am not shot dead by a policeman whose ego is bruised

"Briahna please,

please just do what they say."

a lesson mother never taught me

but suddenly it's taught in every single black household.

Or am I killed by white supremacists who

walk around rickety grounds

where white ankles fall through cracks unscathed

and blood oozes out of black bodies littering the ground in heaping mounds.

Superior race, you must stand with grace

allow the words to flow out of your mouth

making it clear that you are colorblind.

Growing bolder with acceptance

that looks like a shrug of the shoulders

accompanied with words like, "they are entitled to their own opinions"

yet why aren't I?

The answer is clear.

Am I seeing their truths?

Living in a blissful cloud of ignorance

hearing of racism like

hearing a report on the weather forecast:

head nod;

shake head;

humming; eyebrows scrunched up;

"Wow that's crazy"

words muttered through the chapped lips of a naive black child.

Am I the mouthpiece?

Blessed to live with these bleeding words etched onto my skin

to speak out about the truths refused to be acknowledged

like the

racial failures

I am prone to be a victim of.

Tell me.

As I

watch a young boy get shot at because he was lost and asking for directions

clit clat clot through a screen door;

As I

watch a young woman accusing a nine-year-old black child of sexually assaulting her

remembering a time

when white women cried to the wolves

and black men hanged from trees.

Free compost to grow more of those same trees

where my ancestors were stripped naked in front of

tied up by the neck

hanged from a tree

cycling repeating over and over

do you know what I'm feeling?

I have been walking along the same drumbeat played by my ancestors

my whole life

the rhythm slow and low

quickening and rising with a pleasurable volume

hands beating the drums feverishly

you will not stop it.

Do you breathe before you speak

or do you speak before you breathe?

'Cuz in this world

I am to be seen and not heard.

A role not many of you will ever have to play.