There is no record of my true tribe of origin. Nor are there ashes from their campfires. My path to these shores was involuntary. Enslavement, indentured servitude, and the wake of such atrocities gave my tribe reluctance to root. But root we did. We didn’t look back. We pitched our tents and lit our fires and formed new tribes, populated by the disenfranchised and the misplaced.
We put muscle to iron and blazed trails for engines of coal and wood that overcame the limitations of horsepower. Leaving palms of worked chaffed hands on miles of discarded rope and wood handles. We dreamed of a day when we had a plot of land we can call home. But for that moment, home was a base camp where your word was the bond of the tribe of fatigue and big dreams.
We laid our lives down for a country that didn’t see our similarities or manhood, but the hope of that day is why we fought on. We held that flag high. We traveled where we were needed, and we fought for the dream that was put to the test, and won.
Never did we complain. We lifted our tools, fell forests and found paths of personal prosperity in family and legacy. We coveted the words of our founding documents not just for the few, but so all can celebrate in the promise of those first campfires.
Some say reparations are in order. I say I’m not interested. How can you repair something my spirit has already fixed. I want the leaves of Whitman and the roads of Kerouac for payment. I want a free clearing in the woods that proves I took the one less traveled. That’s my ultimate basecamp. There’s a seat for you there, a drink of ‘grown folks business’, a song that sings the praise of the mutts that we are, and the fact that we came on different ships, but we’re all in the same boat. On my ultimate basecamp a nod of the head says thank you and you’re welcome.
