How beautiful is it to know that in me are a thousand who persisted
I come from Quechua
I can hear my ancestors sing to Inti Raymi
The creases on my hand tell stories of Incan warriors resisting the white mans oppresion
I am more than the product of colonization
I am their revenge infused with their blessings and encompassed with education
-children of the sun
My small brown hands touch American soil as if gold was dripping from my fingertips. The land, of the white men with horses and tall tales. The “Indians” they mistakenly said but purposefully removed had walked this soil too. Blood from whipped backs spelled USA on the ground. I left an America for this America. Only to find, that this country was built like mine. The pain of black and brown voices in the streets. Pain engraved on trees like two lovers names who no longer speak. I say her name with my hand on my heart.I know who made her. But America forgets she has a black mother and a brown heart.