By Alonna J. Carter

I come from a place where little girls still run in the dirt in their bare feet,

A commonwealth, known for clear country skies and mountain peaks.

The Blue Ridge Mountain holds the secrets.

And to me she never speaks

Except to say, “Hello child you’ve come again.”

And to tell me that buried in her bosom are the bones of my kin.

Africans, Irishmen, Scotsman, Englishmen

And some East and West Indians, and Natives

Collided under Virginia skies

They mixed Brown, black, and white, and created something I’ve tried to identify.

At the Rappahannock river, they tried to wash their sins away.

And those who were landed ignored the that this fertile earth, rocked the “cradle of slaves.”

One night in a dream, my mulatto Nana Annie’s grave called to me,

And told me I could pay homage to her where she was buried amongst the weeds.

Her father was the biggest cattle farmer in land.

But his daughter’s name was traced in cement on her tombstone, by her son’s hand.

And Grandpa Lewis bought land and signed his own name on deed,

Seven years after he was freed.

Regency, Revolution, and Rebellion run like the river through my veins,

And when my feet touch the soil, my history I reclaim,

And turn my back to stone relics that were designed to make me afraid,

and turn my head toward the future for which my ancestors have paved.

Within the clearing of the Shenandoah, journey and discovery meet and birth hope.

In a land where little girls still run in the dirt in their bare feet

Alonna J. Carter is a freelance writer and Public Historian, who specializes in African American genealogy and history. Her poem Shots Fired was featured in The Dreamers Anthology: Writing Inspired by the lives of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Anne Frank.