Can you speak?

When the White Man spoke my mother tongue to me,
I could only respond in his.

The music and pulsating rhythm that move me, my hands, my fingers, my body
confuse me because they are foreign.
My body and mind are unaccustomed to the music of my people.

He tells me that my people hurt the original creators;
stole their bodies, their rhythms, their movements
Cleansed it of its rawness and purified it so it could live amongst the greats.

The music of my people is the music of the ones we hurt, stripped of its emotion and bastardized to the point that it becomes unrecognizable to those it once belonged to.

It only makes sense that I speak the White Man's tongue
Because it is born from the same breath that steals and makes it their own.

I am born from the same breath that steals; and I make it my own.