Ancestor Poem

Ancestor.

You could have never imagined me,

scrolling and clicking through your paper trail,

just a handful of blocks from the house that still stands.

A house of 4 generations in 4 bedrooms

on a dead end street.

Census taker on the step

in 1910

with a new and loaded question,

and an assigned answer.

Race: White.

Meaningless to be European in Europe,

suddenly meaning everything in your new home.

Your first name changing

over time

from Gencofa

to Gena

to Jennie.

And,

how exactly,

with all due respect,                                                                            

how do you mother 9 children without using your mother tongue?

What could make you turn your back on so much

of yourself?

“They wanted to be American,”

is the paperback romance I was sold.

“They agreed to be white”

is the library I now live in,

just a handful of blocks away.