The dry air prickles my skin with
tickling fingers. My hands caress the desert grass feeling the hidden life that
flows up through the earth with all of the stories, histories, and people that
have been there before me, that I am now a part of. My eyes are closed but I
don’t need them to see the blue sky with sparse clouds that are white but also
carry the color of the land. The air carries the voices of those who found this
land and became part of it. My blood flows like the red rock with the rhythms
of the people and animals that have passed.
This is where I am from. These are
my people. Many may say that I have no right to say this, as they have. Calling
me outsider, pretender, and unbelonging. They have scoffed at me. They call me
unwanted because I do not know where I began. They say this place and these
people cannot truly be mine because my story starts elsewhere, I do not know. But
I have chosen this, this people, this place. I came by way of another but this
is where I have found my home. I came from mystery, from magic, from fate. Here
is where I hear voices and feel strength. I chose this land and its people and
they have chosen me in return. It is here that I return to remember that I
belong somewhere, that I have people and a place when others tell me no.
This is my home. This is where I
belong. These are my people.
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