To Leave a Mark

They ask where I'm from like it's a riddle I must solve, 

as if my accent carries a passport stamp 

or my skin is a map they can fold into answers. 

They want a single story- 

a neat explanation that fits in their back pocket, 

a definition that erases the complexity 

of ancestors speaking in tongues, 

ships splitting seas, 

and rhythms carved into drums. 

I tell them I am from everywhere and nowhere, 

from dirt roads where barefoot children sing 

to city streets humming steel pan symphonies. 

I am from Sunday rice and peas, 

where the aroma of thyme and history 

weaves through the air like a hymn. 

I am from hands hardened by sugarcane 

and hearts softened by calypso melodies. 

But still, they trace my features 

like they're trying to solve a crime. 

Still, they measure my worth 

in shades of melanin and mispronounced names, 

their ignorance wrapped in polite curiosity. 

And so I smile, though my teeth ache, 

and I answer their questions, 

knowing my culture is more 

than the breadcrumbs they choose to see. 

Because for too long, we've been asked to bend, 

to contort our spines into shapes 

that fit their limited gaze. 

The weight of their stares, their words, 

falls heavy like chains never truly broken- 

a whip of history cracking in the present. 

To be treated like animals, 

to be called trash and raccoons. 

Are zebras white with black stripes, 

or black with white wounds? 

They tell us to forget, 

to leave the past buried like it was never a seed- 

but how can we, 

when the roots claw at the surface, 

when the soil still reeks of stolen names 

and blood spilled for fields we never got to harvest? 

They call it progress, 

but progress doesn't silence the songs of the lost. 

It doesn't scrub the red from the ledger 

or mend the scars etched into the backs 

of those who stood so we could rise. 

Yet still, we carry it all. 

The weight, the beauty, the contradictions- 

our heritage like a river, 

flowing with pain but also power. 

Our culture like a mosaic, 

shattered by history, but pieced back together 

with colors too vibrant to ignore. 

And they ask where I'm from, 

as if it's a question with one answer. 

I tell them, 

I am from resistance. 

From warriors who spoke with their hands, 

from the rhythm of feet marching forward, 

from a history that refused to be erased. 

I am from laughter too loud for sorrow to silence, 

from drums that echo in the pulse of my chest, 

from a people who found freedom 

even when shackled by chains. 

So call me what you want, 

but know this- 

I am the descendant of survivors, 

a keeper of stories, 

a soul that won't be broken 

by the weight of your gaze. 

And when you see me, 

know that I am not a question mark 

I am an answer. 

I am everything you tried to bury. 

about the poet

Mark Anthony is an Afro-Caribbean spoken word artist, poet, and performer with a passion for exploring identity, culture, and mental health through his craft. Drawing inspiration from his heritage and personal experiences, Mark’s work blends vulnerability and strength, weaving vivid imagery, rhythmic storytelling, and thought-provoking metaphors. A champion at the Brampton Flower City Poetry Slam, he has graced stages such as the Nia Centre for the Arts, Rose Studio, and Lula Lounge for R.I.S.E L.C.A. Showcase. Mark’s poetry aims to inspire connection, challenge societal norms, and celebrate the beauty of resilience and self-expression.