I wrote this poem in the summer of 2022 and preformed it for the Roots.Wounds.Words writing community. It is a poem meant to be an audible family tree as it details generational resilience and abolition as heirloom.
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we speak our names to the morning light when cinnamon cereal turns the milk to horchata hungered mouths fill, sleep-drained eyes fade we speak our names to the morning light dawn doesn’t grow weary—delighting in hearing children’s minds, tongues, and fluttering Sankofa birds conjur who we are in names Hernandez is the name of your father Do not think of conquistadors’ sons Practice rolling your R’s think of Bisabuels’s birria How spoons roll in pots of love, adding casa-grown vegetables—this name tantalizes tastebuds emphasize the D to remember abuelo’s migration To a state that needed his hands and discarded his soul D is for Delano grape strike Filipine and Latine solidarity, unionizing, labor strikes Let the D sting in other’s ears—clutch back souls this country tried to steal Brown is next Holding itself, a mystery We don’t know the names of our ancestors so we created new names. granddad chose brown as he fled the KKK. Mississippi dirt Held him up while the lynching rope beckoned Him to sway—But I want you to think of the Seeds our mothers braided into hair. It is a hair-itage to be Brown. People Speak poorly of dirt unknowing it carried our seeds and rooted our feet. Teaching us to pray with our legs Marching on.. and on… and on… Panganiban, the name of your Lola It is an oooooold word that means danger Not: destined to be dangerous But: destined to survive, you come From people who chose life despite conquest imperialists searched for my lola, every girl, and shaman in the barrio Convinced our people were the only Comfort from war. One day you will understand Earth hates conquest, will do All it can to protect the flower from rape and erasure. You exist now because Your great grandparents were cradled by caves We do not own trinkets, heirlooms, or gems We hold memories in our dreams stories live in our sinews YES—we are poor in coin and rich with abolition close your eyes and hear their freedom songs smell herbs steaming from a pot of love And if you sit in the silence long enough you’ll feel the rock That became the shield that became the altar Where they prayed for you Remember this: survival is a bomb exploding in the face of a vengeful god And there is nothing more fragile than the ego of that we refuse to worship My children—you are a miracle and miracles need to be proclaimed Often, early, and as soon as possible. My children, this is why we speak our names to the morning light
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