The Fuels of Freedom


I’m constantly surrounded and enveloped by the love, wisdom, critique, success and over/unbecoming of so many perfectly imperfect folks of color. Your stories feed me a truth that could only come from colored hands, those marked by a life force that knows struggle(s), dines with her, and bids her goodbye after an unforgiving odyssey. Brown, Black, Yellow, Red, Mixed..hands that hold backs erect when faced with winds of obstacles, opposition and oppression..calling forth an unhaughty pride..a coolness…a knowingness…that the ancestors have long since impregnated us with a power and a duty to remain firm and tall as the Sequoia of peoples, among weeds. When my soul is weary, I listen closely and I hear the songs of a carry-on tradition, a melody that heals without singing, a rhythm that moves without music, yet never missing a beat…too fluid to be entrapped in limbo and elegant as the commencement of Flamenko..that melody, is a melody of home, of resource, of resolve, a reminder that know matter we are, what we are going through…we are already enough and more than can be articulated by the human tongue. So the ancestors, our family, the Orisha, remind us in deed, in melody and conspire in our favor.

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