My parent’s wear their heritage like dichotomies. You always ask, are those your parents? Confusion. Don’t know how skin like royal mud and ivory could make caramel. Yes! My father is a glory, an unfathomable color of every hue, his skin dark. My mother is a glory, porcelain and ivory, light as the end of the tunnel. My parents were yin and yang. And they loved me cause I was both of them in one. They made me in their image. Crafted me with love and labor. I’m my parents son, I said, I’m my momma and poppa’s son. I’m a blessing. And all I do is in their names. In their honor. To the family! This is my chant. My prayer. This is my culture.