I look at the Black man in the southeast and I know that my ancestors were farm owners who brought his ancestors here, enslaved them for generations, and further mistreated them when they were freed.
I look at the Mexicans in California and I know that my ancestors came north just like they have, but in a time when the border had no particular distinction among the Spanish land grants; it is the border which has crossed them.
I look at the Native Americans in southern states and I know my ancestors were Yaqui, Creek, Choctaw and Chicasaw; driven from their lands or left nowhere to migrate freely in an onslaught of Whitemen.
I look at the new immigrants from Europe and I know that my great grandfather came here from Greece to ply his sea-faring talents in the California Gold Rush; he had an Irish immigrant wife.
I look at the so-called White people, the descendants of the French, British, Irish, and Scottish who immigrated here as the first colonists and fought each other in a massive Civil War; I know they are all distant cousins many times over.
I look at myself and know that I am an American, perhaps more typical of the southwest; similarly unique and bold, with a rugged sense of survival honed over the generations.
