This story isn’t about me.
They always ask, what’s your story?
Ego jumps up and says I, ME!
Ego puts that mask on and
Performs!
Says HERE.I.AM!
But then is shattered by the breeze
Because
We forget the pronoun We.
This story starts in 1951
A baby boy was born in Turkey
This story starts in 1954
A baby girl was born in Detroit.
And the many babies before that,
Until one day this baby was born.
This story is about the Turkish boy
Holding his baby brother
Saying, “Anne make him stop bleeding!”
After the bang of a gun.
This is story is about a girl living
In a country that screamed FREEDOM!
But credit cards aren’t for you ladies, that and so much more.
A country that scream FREEDOM for the whole world to hear!
But was lynching those with melanin,
Only one generation ago, which is quite near.
This story is about a girl growing up in the 90’s
With this itching, gnawing, anxious feeling
That something just wasn’t quite right.
But how could she know?
So she never trusted it.
So it never went away.
It waited.
This story is about a teenage girl in the 60’s
5th of 9 in her family
The only one to make it through college.
“Just because we are poor, doesn’t mean we have to look it.” She would absently say.
That feeling again, the 90’s girl thought.
That line came from long ago,
Well before the 50’s.
This story is about that Turkish boy
With a scholarship,
Sent to the land of freedom
After both his parents had died.
Ah, but this pity party man!
That damn bottle.
Those damn drugs.
The numbing.
The self-loathing.
What a waste of this precious human life.
Enough.
Look around, we’re in this together.
This story is about life.
And the lies we tell ourselves about our differences.
The lies we spew to keep that child safe inside.
Don’t feel they say.
Don’t cry they say.
Don’t tell anyone they say.
Don’t trust them they say.
Make that money they say.
I know you understand me,
even though we come from opposite sides
Of this Mother Earth.
Different? But how?
Our togetherness is delightful.
We are children longing to play.
We are children standing at opposite ends of the playground
too shy to take that first step and say,
“What’s your name? Cool, come on, you're with me.”
These stories aren’t about you or me.
They are about those who passed.
Those who tried.
And those who finally said I trust this feeling,
I don’t know where I will go,
But feeling take me.
That knowing.
That thread that binds us all.
Can you feel it?
I know you can.
Don’t be afraid to tug on it.
Reel it in.
Sew it into your skin.
Make a quilt.
Bring it close.
Wrap it around you.
And fall deep into its love.
This story is about the smile on a
toddler’s face as his mother carries bricks.
This story is about the girl screaming, “Mama!”
As she takes another hit.
This story is about a garden blooming
Sowed with hands of love.
This story is about laughter more contagious
then COVID ever was.
This is about the music
pulsating in our hearts.
It’s about that dance floor
as we move together as one part.
This is about the languages,
spoken and those universally known.
Like the love between two strangers
when their hearts finally connect.
Aha! I see you! Without a word said.
That gleam on their faces.
I don't know the sounds from your mouths,
but I feel you.
Time and time again
Great minds say,
“Look around you!
What miracle do you need?
It’s all right in front of you!”
The growth of a seed.
The birth of a baby.
The weather.
The colours.
The water.
The peaks.
The breath.
The heartbeat.
Whenever you feel hopeless,
Alone and misunderstood.
It’s that feeling saying,
“Go deep, girl.
Trust me and let go.
Have the courage to free your mind
Despite your physical constraint.
I am here with you.
For you are me,
And don’t you ever forget about the We.”