“The White Man’s Burden,”

I read it like irony. 

What a privilege,

I realized,

to not know 

he was talking about me:

The Bastard Child of Imperialism.

The Amer-Eurasian-African

birthed and murdered

by the hands who killed

the hands that raised me.

Genocide or revolution etched

in the crevices of my skin?

We witness the racism

our ancestors endured,

and learn of the racism 

our ancestors had within.

Not enough of one kind or the other,

oh, who but myself to blame?

Here I carry shame and guilt,

yet I carry a colonized name.

How to celebrate my heritage

when part of me caused its death?

Am I merely the result

of centuries-old

“well-intentioned”

enslaved-liberation?

I’m just the unjust

captive captor,

seeking 

an undeserved 

freedom

to be myself.