What There Might Be To Know
by Taylor Moyer
Standing in the living room I suddenly think what I’ve always known,
That most Black Americans are also sprung from the Native American line
It’s Wednesday, a late afternoon– bright light, a dream catcher on the
China closet. My mother’s mother is packing up her house
Cause everyone’s moved out, add to that her last son, my uncle
Died last summer of a heart attack
He was praying on a Wednesday night, at a prayer night.
I was there– he called an elder and said, “Can I get some help?”
The elder, was wearing a navy polo with brown slacks.
He said my uncle asked for help and looked up and passed. Simple.
My grandmother fled town, off to Atlanta not wanting to be in that big house
By herself. She didn’t want people from the church worrying about her.
When we were packing her up I saw the letters from women,
Updates on life, passing down information. Home remedy recipes.
My mother refuses to talk about our Native ancestry. She doesn’t want to
Think about DNA, the past, where we are from, who we might have been,
Who preceded us.
I want to convince her it is important to be curious. Wouldn’t curiosity
ensure confidence? Isn’t everybody too busy trying to make distinctions about who is blacker, who is
African, who might be Dominican? I stood in my grandmother’s
Dining room thought about all that, momentarily stalled amid
Boxes of towels, dishes, a lot of glass. I was wrapping everything in bubble wrap.
Then, there were all her hats.