My struggle began in the warmth of her womb strangling .
I fought to emerge beginning a life which would be filled til its’ end of struggling against involuntary confinement.
She left me six days after my birth ignoring admonitions of her mother not to go out so early after my arrival into the flood waters surrounding them.
Grandma said she would catch pneumonia and die.
Only to hear her respond she had to take her turn watching their meager belongings which were housed in a boxcar up on the railroad.

If that’s the way I’ll have to go she said pulling on her felt rain soaked hat as she left the tent.
When she returned the coughing had already begun weakened by her short wet journey she removed her rain soaked clothing and laid upon the bed.
I had to do my part she said weakly to the old woman.

With face aflame she began to sweat as the fever raged she whispered I’m just a little tired.
Closing her eyes she began a semi-comatose sleep which ended six days later in her death.
And I never saw her again or felt the touch of my Madonna or knew the warmth of her breast and its’ life giving milk.

But the birth blood lingered in my stomach and her veneration remains with me for a lifetime.
She was twenty-six years old and left her third born child to always seek her essence.

(My birth certificate states I was born February 20, 1937 in Colored Refugee Camp Tent Number 68 in Marianna, Arkansas.Refugee status Katrina victims is not a new definition for poor American Blacks perhaps we should teach the media the definition of refugee.)