I used to be you. They snatched us and took us away from the land of our mothers. They raped and pillaged the minds of our brothers. They carried us like famished stocks of cattle and flocks of dehydrated and malnourished pheasant. But yet you forget. Why do you look at me that way like I chose to come here? Why must I walk around with my head down, drenched in guilt and shame. I was the one who was deprived of wearing my father’s birth name. I didn’t want to leave you, I had no choice. I didn’t speak the language, I had no voice. Stop veering at me with those eyes of hate. It has been so long but I will never forget the date. The time when I had my arms stretched screaming your name, asking you to come and save me. They held you back and closed their eyes, they did not want to see or even think of my demise. We floated in waters unknown. We heard creatures with unfamiliar tones. We departed from the only people we had known. We cried and screamed but no one was listening. No longer Kings and Queens, animals we would now be known. I didn’t want to leave you; that you must know. Instead of staring at me like I am some stranger, embrace me while we feel the wind blow. Tell me that you remember my eyes, they never changed. Even though my skin is lighter, don’t you still know my name? I am you and you are me. We are brother and sister, we are family. Look within, and remember that even though my DNA is a little different now, I am your kin. I carried a bow and you packed the arrows. You made the spear and I fetched the water. Don’t you remember me, I am your daughter. Our ancestors carry the same name; I knew you before the history books made their fame. We would run through tall grass of green, we would lie down and seek the stars. I might have left you but look in your heart, I didn’t go far. I have always been with you and you with me. They could not change what has always been, we are blood, so One we will always be. “African American” is now what they call me.