I Am More Than Me

 (A Song of Mixed Blood, Quiet Thunder, and Unshaken Knowing)

I was not born of one tongue

or one root—

but of a thousand quiet threads

braided across oceans,

whispered through soil,

sung beneath the hum

of old trees and older names.

My veins hold echoes—

some carved in the earth of this land,

red with clay,

some woven through stolen ships,

through saltwater and silver coins

that never reached their promised shores.

I carry the smoke of my grandfather’s pipe

and the scent of wild sage

collected under moons I cannot name,

but feel

like the rhythm of wings I once dreamed I had.

And still,

I find home in places

I’ve never lived.

In the saffron of Indian kitchens,

in rose-stitched saris,

in music that weeps

as if it remembers me.

My ayah once traced flowers into my palms

and taught me to stir dal

like it was prayer.

I was five

and forever changed.

In the voices of Portugal,
I hear a warmth that feels like home—
welcoming arms,
bread shared without question,
words I can read
as if they were always meant for me.
Their food carries laughter and history,
and the people—
steady, kind—
remind me that belonging
isn’t always something you’re born into.
Sometimes, it’s what you recognize
in the eyes of another
across a table.

France sings to my silence.
Not with noise or spectacle,
but with poetry that curls like steam
from a warm cup in a quiet café,
with landscapes that blush beneath lavender skies,
and language that slips
like silk ribbon through memory.
There, love is not rushed—
only softened at the edges
and spoken when the soul is ready.

I am all of this—

and more.

Too quiet, they said.

Too soft-spoken,

too polite to be strong.

Too strange

in the way I watch and don’t perform.

Too loud

in the truths I do not apologize for.

Too wise,

and yet still

somehow

not enough for them.

But I have walked through fire

with honey on my tongue.

I have been underestimated

and still brought storms.

I’ve been called privileged

while emptying pockets

and calming my own heartbeat

so I wouldn’t fall apart in silence.

They did not see

the pages I filled

when the world forgot me.

The beads I strung

when my voice was dismissed.

The art I poured

when my body broke.

The kindness I chose

when cruelty was easier.

They will not know

how educated I’ve become

without a platform.

How moral I remain

without praise.

How spiritual I am

without needing a ceremony.

My temple

is a wild field.

My hymn

a brushstroke, a letter,

a strand of wire braided with bead.

I am not what they think.

I am more than blood,

more than border,

more than silence mistaken for shame.

I am river and root.

Color and quiet.

Ink and rhythm.

I am every language

and still not fully fluent—

but fluent enough

to say with certainty:

I am me.

And I will not be

less

to make them

more.