There was a time I needed to feel safe.
So, I would just be the Italian, Eurasion or Greek.
It was better to be whatever I wasn’t
because anything was better than pain.
I didn’t have my grandmother’s arms to hold me
while she told me where we came from.
I didn’t have my grandmother’s words to tell me who
Her children went onward and got lost in the White Sea
with, here and there moments of shining glory, such short moments,
but mostly they got knocked around and then down,
till the medicine could numb them, and set them free.
Some of us finally stopped drowning, and we were doing what we were told.
But I learned the voices in my head weren’t the ones in my heart.
My grandmother does talk to me and she’s been whispering the stories.
That the hurt of the years stood in the way of for so long.
She’s been telling me to stand up now. To remember and learn who we are.
She’s saying use your voice to teach.
Use your voice to reach the hearts of the other ones lost.
Let them know they’re not alone, show them lies are not real.
Learn for them; then show them the ways through that White Sea.
It’s OK to not be only safe. Staying hidden is another bad medicine.