Dirty Roots

Back in October, the NYTimes published a fascinating article about the First Lady's ancestry. I was struck by what this article symbolized for America: That perhaps we can begin to acknowledge the power slavery has had on the 21st Century; the grip racism has had on the human race. Having a black President and First Lady has certainly given America a chance to grow up a bit about the black and white issues—I think we’re all more aware of what it means to truly live in a global community.

But I couldn't ignore this nagging feeling that the article had invaded Michelle Obama’s personal history—like her husband’s role in office had somehow stripped her of any of her own rights to her own life. Though many refuted this and strongly supported the story, I wanted to hear it from her. I wanted to hear her own story. This is my response.


Mrs. Obama
I’m sorry they played you out like that
I’m sorry that they put you out there
airing your roots
like they were anybody’s business but your own


listening to the disheartened gasps of all
as if it were such a shock to find
that four generations back
a white man created life
with a black woman
that the lines were blurred
the stories lost
names unknown

that a legacy of sold bodies
“negro girl Melvinia, $475”
couldn’t destroy a family’s sense
of connectedness to their own history

but I know these roots of mine
are tangled and
deep, too.

I feel it in those places
I’m told I’ll never connect with
that I’ll never understand

these roots
must be more than what I can see
because I feel the spirits of more than just me

these roots
they contain stories I’ve never heard
people I’ve never met

Growing up I thought they told me
that our roots are made of boxes and straight lines
fake trees clearly linking lines to relationships
suggesting that roots aren’t designed to mingle underground
grow mold
collect dust
or rot in places that get too wet

we live surface lives
without reverence for
the deep and tangled roots
that anchor our souls
to our stories
our skin to our bodies

the maps get musty
lines smudged
circular coffee stains that wash out words

like a game of telephone
the stories grow tall
bending in the middle and spurting new growth
from creaky limbs
and rusted sockets
(and some just hide like mice from cats)

But mine are deep. and tangled.
and complicated.
and beautiful.
Like yours.