I groan inwardly, sliding
a pen, folders, journal into
my over-full knapsack.
Eighteen years of schooling
had me lulled into a false
sense of security, into a
belief that never again
would I have to dig deep
into the melting pot of my
past, search for roots long
ago withered, delve into
a tabula rusa of history.
Yet here I am, again at the
cross-roads of trodden paths.
Raised in a family of mixed
race where the tie that bound us
was adoption rather than ancestry.
More than a decade of ‘Family Tree’
projects and ‘Who Am I’ essays piled
up, played a part in prodding me to
search for background and bloodlines.
I discovered that all my detective
work couldn’t create a heritage,
produce traditions, provide roots.
Leaving me more lost than found,
I lay it all to rest in hopes that the
wind won’t assault my branches
harshly enough to rip up the newly
formed fragile tendrils planted in what
little soil I have staked as my own.