I AM.

I am from corduroy 70’s matching shirts and pants, from Pilipino and southern style food that mom and pop used to make, and running home when the street lights came on.

I am from the family owned apartment that used to be a fire station years before I was born, and before New Yorkers owned it, who moved from the rough streets of Jamaica, Queens to transplant themselves into the fight filled streets of Oakland, California.

I am from the narrow streets of White, Korean, Samoan, Mexican, Black, and diversity that riddled my blocks, the shrubs and bricks that lined my apartment complex.

I am from streets filled with kids that played double-dutch and jumping my bike through the double-loop to either be entangled or emerge in one piece without a scrape, and half community raising every child, from my sweet aunty Janice who pulled me to her level and kissed me because I was a black sheep filled with love, who got in trouble because my uncles saw my father in me, the man they didn’t like so much. 

I am from the isolation that watched ants run on concrete in the street, rolly bugs that curled up once they were touched, and the Boykin line that is said to be Russian, and theorized as Viking, because all of Europe claims the name. From the Hutton line that is British in origin, and many names that spell out German, West Indian, Native American, Africans that have no name because they were sold by every ancestor that I can name origins.  

I am from the weekend gatherings that youngsters in their 20’s had watch themselves while they partied and had run the streets as notorious youth whom owned the streets because we were seriously numbered and outnumbering all the other youth.  

From “take care of your mother, sisters and brother while I am away at work, son”, and “Nigga, getcho’ ass over here when I call you!”, as Uncles would put it”

I am from standing and kneeling in Catholic churches that I would walk miles to put a robe on and hold the bible for priests in, and the Orthodox Muslim convert father who made me and my siblings watch nature channels, like National Geographic, and named us African names to make sure we knew our origins, even if we were filled with mixed blood, because society doesn’t give a shit about your blood, so long as you have brown skin.

I'm from Native American and African PTSD, European trauma, Viking rage and Oppressed Irish roots. The Philippine’s conquered by Japanese, Spanish, and American greed’s and lust. 

I am from the lumpia, Louisiana and Texas foods, from the Manhattan and Philadelphia families that ran from home to come to California. From my favorite uncle, Lenny, who stayed in the back room of my grandmother’s apartment, due to mental illness for years, isolated from everyone, due to his feelings of not feeling loved. But he loved me, and made sure when to protect me from abuse. 

I am from a father who worked away from home at a youth authority, to come home and treat his children like inmates once a month, if we were lucky. 

I am from a group culture that saw, but didn’t hear their children; no matter if they spoke the truth, the hierarchy was more important.

I am from the burned food on the pot after it has served the hungers, and the smoke that was captured in pictures before it was taboo to smoke in front of children. Still we call it love that was blind to current standards, I am from it all.

I am from two merchant sea-men grand-fathers who traveled the world while their families awaited their return, and their wives jealously waited for letters, as their children yearned for their attention. I am from the matriarch that allowed men to pretend they ran the families, as they cried about mistreatment and social norms didn’t support their tears before they dried.

I am from milk cartons that displayed the first face of Calvin, and the freedoms that kids enjoyed evaporate into video games and cellular phones.

I am from the numbing economy that one could once support a family on, to everyone working to make ends shake hands, so they can feed their mouths.

I am from coon, from nigga's, from marginalized, from shackles and whips, from savage ships that crossed the oceans to take land, from savage ships that pirated the seas, from savage ships that delivered men as they did rice, from guns and from rape, from peculiar fruits, from beatings and spit in the food, from cowboys and Indians, from cops and robbers, from Black Power movements, and Occupy, from judgments and pimps, from gangstas and thugs, from scholars and kings, from chiefs and captains, from whores and from ladies, from gentlemen and from young children who dreamed a reality that never came to save them... 

I am from the bottom of the pyramids that lit the skies of Egypt and housed the pharaoh’s dead bodies before they were raped in death of their sacred after life belongings to be displayed by European rich men.

I am from Turtle Island, the place her original inhabitants now must open unrighteous casino’s to enjoy stability financially, as they are permitted to live on below standard reservations awaiting true justice.

I am from this reality that reminds me of what I am grateful for, though I struggle to accept it, life.

I am from a multitude of growing pains that teach me to learn and ask me to focus on what I am here for.

I am from this all, and will return to the dirt when all I am from is dead, dying, reborn, and no longer a part of my physical experience.

I am from the dirt, as the plant breaks the ground and reaches for the sky that reaches back.

I am from the country. The catching of lizards that were captive pets that my brother and I fed crickets to. The same crickets that sing when we called for help as adults. 

I am. 

By: Atiim Chenzira aka Blackulah ©2012 (Poet, Rapper, Singer, Writer, Activist, Teacher, Social Worker)