The Africa that is sold to us is not my Africa, the dry and desolate place filled with starving people and war lords is not my Africa. My Africa is filled with trees that are a heavenly green and the soil bleeds red. My Africa is beautiful so therefore, I am beautiful.

full lips

thick thighs

dark skin

treasure chest

It’s a careful mix

of rage and sadness

I hold under my tongue

For a long time, I did not believe I had a story to tell. What could be special about a Black girl from Queens? The separation between myself and my Caribbean heritage left me feeling adrift, the classic first generation dilemma.

"What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say?" Spoken like a sincere mother of sages, the questions Audre posed continues to bring life to the stories buried inside of me. What I now know is that the suppression of how you feel will hurt you: emotionally, mentally and physically.