We Are
 
Monique Judge

We are Black, White, Indian
We are quadroons
We are mulattoes
We are gumbo every New Year
We are Bahamian roots buried in American soil
We are secrets yet to be revealed
We are too many names for my grandmother to remember
We are my grandfather’s baby fine hair, passed down generation after generation
We are old Negro Spirituals
We are a fondue pot of multiple cultures
We are conflicting values
We are the blinking red light at the railroad track
We are the law fought in courtrooms across America
We are overcome
We are bits and pieces of a history yet to be discovered
We are a bloodline traced all the way back to slavery
We are mammies and chiefs and mighty warriors
We are the realization of Martin’s dream
We are the first black family to live on that street
We are my grandmother’s tears for a son scattered over Vietnam
We are my uncle’s memory playing tricks on him
We are my aunt’s loudly sung gospel
We are in church speaking tongues
We are down at the river being baptized
We are dysfunction
We are yesterday, today, tomorrow
We are family