There's a question. It's nagging. I have to ask. "Momma, what's over there?" I say as I strain to see. Momma snatches me up as I see grass.
“What have I told you about the Other Side?” She whispers to me, fear in her eyes. “Never speak of it.”
“I know, but-“
“Hush. No more about it.” She put me down, took my hand and led me away from the wall and all my questions. We are prisoners. We are slaves. We are Israeli. Most of all, we are strong.
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I love watching the clouds. Daddy used to watch them with with me. He used to point out hearts, faces, and a bunch of other things. He quit a long time ago, saying that we both were too old. I still look up at them. I still want him out here. We are free. We are independent. We are American. Most of All, we are weak.
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A boat is waiting. We have heavy, noisy things put on our wrists. A man yells at us. I scream as my family is taken to a different boat. We are African. We are torn. We are angry. Most of all, we can't be broken.