Ginned Truth 

I'm always amazed at the strength, dignity, and hope of a people who were misnamed, categorized by misnomers, and killed with no mercy. I've struggled to reconcile the images of it with the history taught in convenient truths, filled with holes lacking any Swiss appeal because of the time that elapsed before a reset of infrastructure, understanding, and soul. I can't get passed perpendicular lines that crossed tracks on flesh inflamed by resistance on backs supporting hearts hollowed by reality, but still beating, and still hoping. I sat and cried loud dry tears at the site of slave tags, and impending lashes for literacy fighting ignorance to redefine God, and what it meant to matter, and not just be matter. I wept for the devil in men made white not be ethnicity or purity, but by the absence of love, who took pleasure in killing those living with the reflection of sunsets on their skin, and soon, on their lives. Sovereign men, women, and children were forbidden to be human, and taught to deny themselves in the hopes of surviving. I wept for our grandmothers, and my grandfathers. I wept for our ancestors, made nothing short of moon rock, or some other substance out of this world. I'm reverencing and respecting my history, and I'm overwhelmed by its richness. Though appreciative, I weep because of my wealth.