Pack my bags

After finding out Trump was elected as our next president, I started to pack my bags so that, as he wishes, I could return to my home country…

Which made me begin to wonder, where the hell do I really come from?? 

Oh right, 

My ancestors were brought here against their wishes, 

And at some point, raped by their ‘owners’ {it hurts to even write that}

That’s the only way I can logically account for my great grandmother’s red hair and white skin,

– I doubt the fairy tailed- ‘our mixed love against the world’ is a greater possibility for how his-story actually went down…

So, again I ask myself, where am I going? 

The muddiness of this answer is found much deeper than at ancestry.com…

Internally I am vexed to point fingers and wage war 

Like, literally go to blows with people who have long gone from this earth, 

But who have left their blood of laws, lies and hate to perpetually speak on their behalf. 

I just want to tell them that we are worthy! 

Shake them up and let them know that we are worthy! 

Slap their faces, look them straight in the eyes and shout to them, “WE ARE WORTHY!” 

Wake them up and while trying to catch my breath, yell at them:

WE! 

ARE! 

WORTHY! 

TOO! 

After all, we were all once strangers on this soil…

God! This feels futile! 

These thoughts and frustrations are exhaustive… 

So, for a moment of peace of mind, I walk away from this reality with my bags half packed, 

Back to my smile…

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Welcome Back?

I’ve written many posts and in so doing, have shared most of my life’s updates with you, but the major downside is, I’ve only done so in my head. On reality, it has been well over a year since I’ve posted anything new, well, actually closer to two years. I’ve finally surrendered to the fact that I’m very bad at this consistent writing thing so now I must look for a new method. 

I write this post in hopes that I will actually complete it and not only that, but that I will also upload it so that eyes other than my own can view. Attached to that hope is also the thought that perhaps my passion for writing will reignite and I will begin another writing and posting spree, no matter if it’s temporary. One of those things only time will tell. 

   

   

Reflecting, Saturday, July 28, 2012

Reflecting on my teenage years, I remember constantly praying to God on behalf of my mother. What seems like everyday, I asked Him to spare her life and release her from the relentless grips of drug addiction, which had her bound way before I can even remember. I remember fearing that she wouldn’t live long enough to see me graduate high school or college. I remember the many days I nervously wondered if she’d ever be present to happily watch me take the plunge into holy matrimony or with a motherly comfort, walk me through the path of pregnancy and the birth of my first child. This day, I am glad to remember her standing at my side as I graduated college. I remember the kiss she gave me the day I got married and I remember the support and many stories she told about her pregnancy with me and about my baby years. I remember 15 years ago when God delivered her from drug addiction and not too long after that, saved her soul. Today, I remember her crying while declaring, “I am a follower of Jesus Christ!” and being baptized in the powerful name of Jesus Christ!

I am a living witness that God still answers prayer! I feel like I cannot thank Him enough. The road started out very rough, but God has redeemed the times and I am grateful!

“All things work together for good…”

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I cried at my grandfather’s funeral, mourning not for the loss of life, but for precious memories that were never formed and infinitely severed ties between myself and my history

Now, a grown product of a man with different baby mommas, who 30 years later still blames our disconnect on, baby momma drama

Toward him I really desired to feel hate, I looked for it behind every broken promise, every unreplied text or ignored call, sometimes I wish to have never loved him at all

To find like many others, solace in, ‘I can’t miss what I never really had,’ but instead of having just a father, I wanted a dad

To him I forgave for walking away to claim kids that he did not even experience the pleasure of creating while leaving my heart begging, praying and waiting for a love that should have been rightfully mine, an act summed up as another waste of time

What’s greater, the intensity of love or the bondage of hate? Or to create a child with no desire to participate?

As roots take place and grow, becoming one day un-remorsed and unable to be controlled a vicious cycle- only imagining the unknown

Based on the physics of a present reality, creating in the mind a possibility, a might have been, or a maybe,

I could be the descendant of a slave or perhaps from the line of a builder of the Panama Canal

But some things I’ve resolved to never know

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