Did I tell you I was a poet?

How is one a poet when one fails at vocabulary? Answer: *shrugs* Words form sentences in my head and when pen is put to paper, I call it poetry.

The Fa’asamoa

I’ve lost my culture.

The blood of my ancestors run deep within me.

But their language so foreign, like gibberish to my ears.

I claim to be their descendent, yet tongues are tied.

I reach helplessly for words that are not in my reach, yet so close to home.

Words that will teach the generations to come of who they are.

Yet only the white mans language slides smoothly off the tip of my tongue.

 O fea sa e i ai? O fea ua e alu i ai? 

Where were you? Where have you been?

What will I teach my children? Of their language?  Of their culture?

When the Samoan language I hardly know has been stolen from my very lips.

I try so hard to remember, yet my life is living to forget.

My eyes cry unseeing tears of sadness.

Sadness that sweeps over the eyes of my matua and aiga, as I struggle with simple words.

Words that will one day be lost in a cacophony of broken Samoan.

Written by 18 year old me.