Background

Just came from a spoken word poetry event. As always after attending such events, I feel inspired to write something of my own. This is a really bad attempt at *spoken* (typed) word. Seeing as noone reads this, I feel safe posting it here. (Also I deleted my tumblr due to the inaneness.)
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When people ask me about my “background”, I pause.
I wonder, “Will they believe me if I tell ‘em?”
Spelling out this tangled web of nationalities, “Malian. Mexican. French. Kenyan.” Will they even know where Mali is?
I think back to 8th grade,
When I showed my friend a picture of my grandmother, my dad’s mother,
And she said,” that can’t be your grandmother, she’s white”.
I was silenced.
In my family, we never said “white” or “black”.
We said “African.” “European.” “American.” Referring to people based on color was a foreign concept, just as foreign as my parents.
My roots stretch out far from here- from Guadalajara, toMarseilles, to Bamako, and to Kithimani (that’s in Kenya).
Can you believe it? I am not just “Black”. I am a mixture, a medley, a myriad of many in one motley body. My skin is monotone, but my background, far from it.
My mom’s mom speaks Swahili, my dad’s mom spoke French. Her mom spoke Spanish. My cousins speak Italian, my aunts speak German, and me, I speak English, some French, and a little Swahili, but I absorb and I learn and I love the variance that is my background.
I hate having to prove my background-because it’s not apparent by my appearance. Parlez-vous francais? oui, et je suis francaise.
So before you assume, before you tick off “black” on my form, let me tell you a tale of my tangled background. Let me show you just how far my roots stretch.