I’ve been working on this poem for 20 years or more. My high school teacher introduced me to a poem when I a senior in high school called “Two Women.” The poem was in two similar but distinct voices on separate journeys, and I’ve been working on my version ever since. One was rich and one was poor. Being adopted and experiencing what that means juxtaposed to being African or Black American inspired this piece.

My birth mother left no picture, no message, or sign.

I was born in this race, and I’ve been left behind.

A warm smile greeted me, and a woman opened a red door.

The butt of a gun greeted me, and I fell on a bloody floor.

I stayed with my new friend until my mother didn’t call anymore.

My mother was human cargo stripped naked on a distant shore.

They welcomed me, and I was safer without my birth family.

They whipped me; I knew safe and free was something I’d never be.

There was a man. Who taught me to read and told me to stay aware of what I want versus what I need.

There was a man. Whose greed made me bleed, who forced me to work, then stole my every seed.

He taught me to own my ideas and beware of taxes and inflation.

He taught me each creator is white and gave me no real education.

I learned my mother’s language, and I studied her drums and dance.

I learned white is always right if you want to be given a chance.

I look in the mirror and see a leader, my lineage full of royal majesty.

I don’t know anything about Africa, and I prefer green not black tea.

I am grateful for my new family, and that’s why I took their last name.

I was told my nose is too big, my skin too dark, and I felt the shame.

Tell them being adopted made me view everyone as potential family.

Tell them being a child of God is how I found a sense of family.

What I’ve learned from history is no matter what, I can adapt.

What I’ve learned from history is no matter what, I can adapt.

Maybe it’s because I’m human.

Maybe it’s because I’m black.