Dreams of My Ancestors

My ancestors did not bleed, sweat, labor, and dream to see me exploited in 2019. I did not suffer and climb my way out of the underbelly of Leavenworth Kansas, a police state ran by descendants of the KKK enacting laws of their ancestors, to feel unworthy. I did not suffer through impostor syndrome at a white Institution in Massachusetts, I did not put my mental health on the line and walk across the stage to be gas-lit. I did not suffer through trauma and leave the bedside of my father to suffer at the hands of white exploitation in Seattle. I did not cultivate knowledge, an extensive resume, and research to have my work exploited in the Pacific Northwest. I know I sound like the angry black queer person, another angry bitter black woman, but I don’t care I am done begging to sit at the table, I am done choking down resentfulness for you. I demand compensation, I want acknowledgement.

Sometimes I sit and contemplate. I hear the voices of my ancestors. I hear Martin have a dream, I watch Malcolm demand equality, Maya dances across my gaze, and I sit at the feet of Angela Davis. I think about the young woman in Mississippi forced to take care of white children who were not her own, I think about how she passed away in Kansas. Did my grandmother and my grandmother’s mother work in the homes of white people, with dreams of equality for their children only for me to let a liberal city filled with white ”allies” steal my genius? No! I shout this from the rooftops, I am done being a slave to white systems, this is my Manifesto, this is Black America’s Manifesto, this is a love letter to black creators and creatives. I see you, you are more than enough, don’t sacrifice your dreams, hopes, and communities anymore. I hear the voice of my ancestors, they told me to walk away.