My name, My story
You may know my name, but you don’t know my story, the story of how I came to be.
Or maybe you do
Do you know the story of my ancestors? Do you know the fight they fought that got me to where I am today?
Do you know how the strength of their determination, their hope, their beliefs and their drive made it possible for me to exist?
You may know my name, but do you know theirs?
The ones that slaved, and toiled, and fought, and protested, and hoped, and believed, and cried, and grieved.
Do you know the names of the ones who were whipped? The ones who were raped, and tortured, and starved, and stripped of their worth?
They were worth more than any Bill Gates, or Donald Trump could even dream to be able to afford.
They were worth mountains, and rivers, and oceans. They are the roots of the trees that have built me up to who I am today.
You know my name, but can you even imagine what it took to get me here, in this room, breathing this air, today?
Can you fathom the pain, the heartache, the torment,
That it took to get me here.
This nation was built on the backs of my ancestors. Crafted by the bodies of my ancestors. Glued together by the blood, sweat, and tears of my ancestors.
And that same nation scorns my ancestors. They spit on their memories.
How dare they
How DARE they slander and ignore and dismiss my ancestors.
They wouldn’t have made it without ancestors. They would have been without clothes if not for the cotton my people picked. They would have been without tobacco, and corn, and sugar. They would have starved without my ancestors,
They would have died without my ancestors.
My name is Alexandria Nelson, and I-no, we live, because of my ancestors.