Turbulence
I fall in slow motion,
concrete burns
my outstretched hands,
and the sidewalk kisses
my childhood scar,
where chinbone chipped
while biking zigzags
on loose gravel.
I scream
as the child cut open
by awkward motion
and cry, cry, cry
under the sky.
Worry falls wet and red,
a pattern spreads,
as stones
taste my soul.
When change embraces
my heart,
I start in pain,
afraid,
watching my soul spread
across stones
in worries
not their own.
Familiarity tears
as change
bleeds my heart,
scrapes and replaces
people.
Purpose flows
sticky thick
between me and the stones
as we take shelter
under the same sky.
Introductions
I claimed Mom's German ancestry
but not Dad's ancestor,
the Cherokee,
who drew me to the gathering,
because I stuttered in shame
without a name
to introduce myself
to the community
as the First She taught me,
while She Two said, "To be Indian
means you must be
part of the community."
Then one day,
She Three introduced me
as Cherokee.
Holding my breath, I wondered
what the First She said.
"Right?" asked She Three.
I confessed, "Yes."
I am.
But how do I stand with those
who know names and stories
when I am afraid
to speak?
How do I honor ancestry
without shame
as I learn the story
of an orphan born
before the Civil War,
Anderson Leamon,
whose name sticks
in my throat
with an introduction,
Cherokee.
I am searching for
family stories,
archives,
blood ties,
learning
to see
through the image,
to hear
through the silence,
and
through the fear
to be
who I am.
The Key
to the United States
1820 Federal Census
reads
Names
the heads of families
alphabetically arranged
by surname
the last name first
followed by
the first name given
Columns A to K
number
number
number
of males and females
under 10 years of age
10 to 16
16 to 18
18 to 26
26 to 45
and over 45
Column L
number of
slaves
in the household
and Column M
number of
free people of color
orphans, mixed bloods, and civil war
for Anderson Leamon
•
Great Aunt Peg tells me the Cherokee lies on her mother's side
Peg's sister Lois, before she drank herself to death, said their great grandma's people are from Holland
so the ancestry might be through the orphan with a brother named Sam
Anderson Leamon
who the Georgia Calvary records as born in 1826
information without documentation to link this great, great, great grandfather to the tribe spoken by my father's mother
• •
peoples were removed from the land before this war began, now remembered to pit brother against brother
what an irony to call any war Civil, as if there ever could be a killing spree carried out politely
iron rings from the bayonets and muskets
as bones scrape and break from cannon balls
the tearing of the land and her inhabitants began long before blue and grey suited soldiers formed ant hills
it began with enslaving Indians, those bodies mistaken for Asians
loading backs with burdens not their own, raping into childhood
mixed bloods misunderstood by continents
some liaisons might have formed from love of the Other, but those children weren't treated better than brothers and sisters born into bondage
unless one's skin carried the cream of a European father that could pass on to children who later could pass as White
the tearing of the land and her inhabitants began with chaining beauties across the sea in depravity, no humanity displayed to those deeded property
captives sardined in a hull overwhelmed by defecation
groan from green salty depths
• • •
I shake my head
seeking out a child born
amidst removals and nationalized fables
of a war that began
long before Southern secession
shaking my head I know
all rows I hoe are my own as
a friend shows me stones from
her grandmother and I learn
to weave double-walled baskets
undocumented
and proud
throwback
