The Braid Ones

 for the woman made of rivers, roots, and memory

I was not born from a single tree,

but from a grove where many roots drank the same rain.

My skin carries the hush of Appalachian moss

and the fire-scorched bloom of red clay plains.

I have walked through forests that do not whisper in English,

and I have wept in silence for names too long forgotten,

yet still living

in the marrow of my spine.

They say,

"You must choose one."

But I was raised by stone and feather, by sea mist and horned thistle

how could I ever?

I carry Manahoac dusk in my eyes,

the kind of gray-blue that knows how to hide,

and Shawnee grit in the way my jaw sets

when someone dares to laugh at my lineage.

There are elder-prayers, once spoken by Sachems, stitched behind my ears

not spells,

but memory-songs

sung by people who walked without needing maps

because the land loved them back.

From the Welsh hills, I carry fog

not confusion, but mystery,

the kind that guards sacred stories

with mist and riddle.

From the Scottish glens, I carry stone

cold but unyielding,

the way I’ve learned to be when the world tries to fracture me.

Irish wind lives in my lungs

wild, aching, full of music and mourning.

I breathe in rebellion without even trying.

The French in me knows to hold eye contact

like a blade pressed gently against the throat

just enough elegance to be mistaken for softness,

until you feel the steel.

And from the Portuguese and Italians,

I carry warmth like sun-baked olive wood.

I speak with my hands. I remember with recipes.

I love like earth that refuses to crack.

From Scandinavian frost, I learned silence

is not absence

it’s wisdom paused.

I learned that strength is not always fire.

Sometimes it’s the calm of snow that kills the last lie.

But in the marrow, beneath the European frost and flare,

you’ll find a pulse of Congo drumbeat,

of Sierra Leone soil

not diluted,

but quietly guarded like the best kinds of fire.

I am not too white to be Indigenous.

I am not too quiet to be African.

I am not too gentle to be fierce.

I am not too much.

I am the daughter of river reeds and bramble.

I am the descendant of wind-split mountains and bellyful meals.

I am made of hush and howl,

of cornmeal hands and linen braids.

I have danced on concrete and clay alike.

I have known hunger for truth

more than hunger for love.

Let them laugh.

Let them mock the “Cherokee princess” they think I invented.

Let them say “But what are you really?”

I am what happens when no one is left to tell the story,

so the story decides to grow legs

and become a woman.

I am a braided one.

And I will not be unbraided for your comfort.