“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.
