The bicep of the man was covered by black ink
contorted into the markings of my mother’s home.
The spirals of our ancestors,
Our lineage,
Printed and bolded on his forearm 
caused me to stare

Tinā
Our tatau is on that man
Lale

Distance and Time have exiled my mother.
She stays glued to pictures to smell the saltwater.
Relies on Facebook to feel the sand.

You can only handle checking “other” so many times
without seeing another in real life 
before you wonder if you’re the only other out here.

So when we saw this man,
who wears Our history,
Our souls,
Our family on his body
Our hearts wanted to find our identity within his tendons
But our minds had to ask questions.

Where could he have gotten it?
Texas
Where was the artist from?
North Carolina
Does he know what it means?
No. It was just a cool pattern.
Your tattoo is polynesian?
Sorry, What did you say?

“It’s okay mum, maybe some Samoans ended up in North Carolina.”
Silence
“Maybe the artist knew”
Silence
“Or maybe they think we’re just a pattern.”

My mum and I walk away
Feeling just as alien as before
And just a little bit offended.