Spoken Word: Who Am I?

By Camille McMillan-Rambharat

Three weeks ago, someone asked me, “Who are you?”

A simple question—yet so profound, it lingered.

It forced me to pause, reflect, and wrestle with layers of memory, identity, and faith.

Who am I, really?

This Spoken Word is my response.

It is not just poetry—it is a living archive.

A traumatic memory.

A sacred testimony.

It is truth passed down through my bloodline—through the bowels of ships, through sweat, through worship, and through survival.

I am the voice of my ancestors—

stolen from the African continent,

rooted in Caribbean soil, now standing on the land of the maple leaf.

This is a tribute:

To where I come from.

To what I carry.

To where I am—

and where I am going.

Spoken Word: Who Am I?

I am the breath of a King—

born of a continent rich in gifts:

black gold, black oil, black bodies.

I am from the soil that once enriched the world.

I am from the belly of ships,

where my ancestors were shackled in darkness,

stacked like cargo, stripped of name and nation,

where some choose the sea as their burial ground.

I am from wide fields of tall rows,

from emerald blades that whispered

songs of worship into the wind.

I arrived in the Land of Steelband and Limbo before the Calcutta ships.

I am forged in oil and gas fields—

from salt, sweat, and survival.

I am from the Son of David.

I am from the Hail Mary, full of grace.

I am from the land of the maple leaf,

dripping with syrup and sacrifice.

Where freedom seekers followed the North Star, and faith carried them across frozen ground.

Who am I?

I am from the soil that once enriched the world—and to which I will one day return.