erupting putrid, ignorant, deadly
from uneducated mouths, choked by
residue left from another time:
When men and women and
children
were beaten bloody
for drinking from a forbidden fountain,
for a different view.
Words that soil minds, poison
truth. What is the value of "truth"
when it's claimed by complacent white men?
Fearful words that reek
of disillusionment, dissatisfaction,
insecure lies.
Can it be that I am of this blood?
Words
spoken by my father's brother--
I will never claim them,
but am I stained?
Words
that tear my insides
beyond recognition,
beyond belief:
"They come here,"
he says,
"And think they can change everything."
(But I hear truth in change.
Growth.
Survival--why can't he see?)
Fear festers in his words:
"They should get the hell out, go back."
To where?
To war? Death?
To places where ten-year-olds
carry weapons, where girls
gather firewood while men wait in ambush,
where brothers kill
their own brothers? Uncle--
you can't even begin to imagine the
real truth. Can't you see?
We are their brothers and sisters. We.
What would you do
if it was you who had to leave
everything you knew,
if your entire world
fell to pieces
and you were forced
to start again
alone
in a place where no one
knew your name
or spoke your language
or understood
or cared?
What would you be forced to become?
What would you
be forced to give away?
Uncle--
fear and hate kill, maim, blind,
rape and pillage,
beat truth bloody
but LOVE--
Love heals... love allows for choice.
And I choose to be unafraid.
I choose to fight for change, I choose
equality. I choose to protect the rights of those
who have not yet been allowed to learn how,
in this place they now call "home."
I choose to educate. I choose to
be educated.
I choose to love.
I choose to expand my horizons. I choose
to aid, and
I choose to respect the voice
of a Somali family
over the hateful voice within my own.
See, uncle?
I choose.
And I will never choose
to be like you.
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