This is a personal response, perhaps a poetic one, I wrote for my own poem, Racing.
You understand that poem right?
Did you actually listen?
That the lines are a dialogue, between me
and the general public, that people make
assumptions about who I
am based on the pigmentation
of my skin, when it
doesn’t matter, because at the end of the
day I am still human. I am still
a living, breathing being, deserving of
respect, and that whatever race
I am, the only one that matters is human.
That your race doesn’t have to culturally
define you, and that me being half unknown attributes
to the fact that I don’t identify with being
a specific sect, rather the whole of homo sapiens.
Nor do I care
to know of the breakdown of the history
of people long gone if they didn’t care enough
to imprint their history on me
with anything other than a shared genealogy.
My resulting ethnicity is fabricated
by few other than myself
not based on a collection of cells, images
rather a collection of experiences.