Broken Legacy

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Broken Legacy

I feel like a tourist
whenever people elaborate on their family trees,
and when I hear about family reunions,
I’m a nomad in a land of clans.

I have Blackfoot, Seneca,
and Cherokee in my family.
Most are dead,
some disavowed their heritage
to pass for white or black.

My paternal great grandfather
passed for black. He worked
as a Pullman porter on the railroad.

My maternal grandmother
passed as white, so she lived
as a white woman.

These are all the stories I have.

I was never taken to a reservation.
I was never told my people’s history.
I have no artifacts or trinkets.
I have nothing to pass on.

My family branches
are broken, the trunk fallen
and split, and the roots are
overgrown. I have learned
to bury my pain and move on.

I live as an American black,
with all the rights my African
ancestors fought and died for.

I have no idea who they are.
No stories. No artifacts. No records.
Nothing.

I feel like a tourist
whenever people elaborate on their family tree,
and when I hear about family reunions,
I’m a nomad in a land of clans.