And I am not only black or white—
Am many-colored also,
yellow and dun and red and brown,
I would be green too if I could find a way;
I, too, am America.
My song is the lifeblood of this country;
My sweat still waters the bounty of its fields;
My mind is a gift to the testament of opportunity;
I foresee setback but I am optimistic:
I will find a way.
My heritage carries with me.
I am ever the child of immigrants.
I struggle to merge with those around me.
I am ever the one with two selves, two halves, two souls.
I am struggling to retain my past.
My culture beats warring drums inside me.
Mine is not a simple answer.
I found this poem by chance. The rest is here.
Over the past few weeks, workers have been traipsing in and out of the house as my kitchen and bathrooms have been turned inside out and made new again. Men from Romania, El Salvador, Honduras, Turkey, Moldova and Ethiopia laying stone, trimming wood, fixing cabinets, cutting granite, painting walls. This poem could be their song too.