His hands in shackles hers in gloves.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
English Project Junior Year

Submitted: April 22, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 22, 2008




I come from the land of nod, where people beat, curse, and swear, from a place were my color is determined from what I ware.


I am supposed to hate the white man, say all my colored friends. And I’ am to speak like the whites in order for them to let me in.


My tongue is Indian, and my language is French and my mouth speaks of Africa, I am from the land of nod.


I am to choose they say, a side to walk on in school, for I can not be what I am today and still be considered cool.


The boxes on the test say only mark one, I put down 2 sisters and 1 brother, but when the box reads background, I proudly mark down….other.


I am from the land of nod when chocolate and vanilla swirl, alas my eyes still won’t see the ways of this crazy world.


My hair is tough, yet still so soft and curly, and my eyes they lay on dark hazel.


Dad grew up with a bent back and bloody, stubby hands. Mom grew up in the winter in the land of the French man.


In this land of nod you will view my family-tree; look closely underneath it, to see a dandelion….that’s me.


Blown away my spirit from all the places I come from, if you’re quiet you will here it along with the sound of my family’s drums.



But I cannot refuse to look back for my past is what I 'am, I am not the color black nor a sellout nor a sham.


I am not this color white; I am neither snow nor cloud. I will not choose these sides; I will stand steadfast and proud.


I am from the land of nod where my past is a long, long trip. In the end I will stand in the middle not picking cotton nor hold the whip.

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