Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha’olam shecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higyanu lazman hazeh. Amen
My roots extend wide across lands that my feet have not touched, but my mind and heart claim as home.
My green–orange–purple roots connect and intersect. They push through layers of soil barriers that relentlessly try to stop the need for each root to need each other.
My roots wrap me with the sounds of the ancestors,
with the words of honorary mamas and titis, who held me,
who hold me,
who scold me,
who let me know that even when the tunnels are dark and uncertain,
confia en Dios, Samantita – trust in God.
My roots name me – claim me – they inspire me to never burry my dreams and grow only what is safe, easy and convenient.
No, this year gotta grow a revolution.
This year gotta grow something new.
This year these old sacred roots will grow fresh beginnings.
My roots, my roots, my roots.
Hold me tight, pull shamelessly at my arms and legs.
Hold me accountable, Roots.
Don’t you let me - let you go.
My roots break open the box that boxes me in, with an explosion of shapes, sizes and colors – setting me free.
These are the roots of green-eyed Abuelo Arturo, who was disowned for falling in love with the illiterate indigenous black skinned maid– my abuela in Isabella, Puerto Rico.
These are the roots of my namesake Great-Grandma Ann –
who fled her Russian village just in time to hear the screams of her schoolmates - as Anti-Semitism turned to Holocaust and all that was left of home was a graveyard of murdered dreams.
These are the roots of Presbyterian and Atheist grandmothers.
These are the roots of my Mamá, who pushed through tough city streets into college classrooms, who despite being called nothing more than a dumb spik–
graduated and became top in her field!
These are the roots of the activist, fired up Catholic women from Valparaiso, who have adopted me into their fight to give their Chilean sisters a right never afforded to their bodies – a chance to choose.
These are the roots of United Nations campaigns:
“End violence against women!”
These are the roots of Youth group meetings with teens:
“Don’t give up, you’ll get through it.”
These are the roots of my Muslim, Jewish, Christian neighbors, who raised me on a block where I learned that we could not only dialogue together, but actually live, love and thrive together.
They are the roots of slaves, of Tainos, of Ellis Island immigrants, of “No dogs or Jews allowed,” of perseverance, of education, o hell, of celebration!
My roots name me – claim me – they call me to not burry my dreams.
These roots carried me to this place, where now my feet are rooted.
Rooted but never still.
These roots like Salsa steps tell me to get movin’.
Paso a paso, don’t give up – confia en Dios, Samantita.
These roots every day are watered now in this place –
and grow fast in directions that terrify and excite me.
May they break open every box.
May they grow onward.
May they grow outward.
Until every root in my body can stretch me far into tomorrow,
while still holding me fast to home.
My roots, mis raizes, my kornia
Blessed are you, O Lord for you are the giver, sustainer and enabler who has allowed these roots to reach this moment.
Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha’olam shecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higyanu lazman hazeh. Amen
Samantha González-Block is an Associate Pastor at Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church in Asheville, North Carolina. She is a graduate of Barnard College and Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York.
