I'm thinking about,
what it would mean,
if someone stole my world -
and my life,
and made me feel
less than human.

Now I'm reflecting,
on my ancestors,
who came, through a pain
I cannot comprehend.
Who survived and kept hope,
through the torture of life
as it was - when suddenly,
it was no longer
their's

When those who called themselves `people'
became more cruel than animals.
And enslaved for greed.
They succeeded in stealing bodies.
They could not take minds -
or the will to live.

My people survived
the animals
who tortured
the enslaved
for entertainment.
But many died,
from the horrors  inflicted.
I will remember their lost cultures.
For those who lived, and those who died,
and for an answer when I ask,
"Who am I?"

Racism isn't just where I sit on a bus.
Racism is what was done
to races and lands.
It wasn't just one land
Nor was it just one time.
So don't tell me it's all good now
and expect me
to forget their pain.
I will remember their lost cultures.
For those who lived, and those who died,
and for an answer when I ask,
"Who am I?"

The blood of the dead in this land
are the seas between their murderers and I.
Asian, African, Indian...
Opium,  small pox,  influenza...
Now drugs & guns in the ghettos,
that came from elsewhere
somewhere...
And rum shops that we don't own.
The times are changing, and so are the methods.
But it's still splattered across my path
so don't tell me it's not here anymore.
Don't ask me to forget their cries.
I will remember their lost cultures.
For those who lived, and those who died,
and for an answer when I ask,
"Who am I?"

You smile at me,
I smile back.
But don't try to take my thoughts.
They are mine.
These thoughts will be told
When my children ask,
"Who am I?"