Black History Month to me is much than remembering the dead. It is to remember the struggle of everyday life which shapes who we are.
Remembering why my toys came from goodwill or the salvation army. Feeling like we moved up when they placed showers in the apartment and worry about my bath water turning piss green before I finish my bath or better yet . Constantly trying to figure out why I had to wait til the first to get cereal from the top of the cereal aisle.
Looking at my mother rake her body over the hot coals of life trying to put food on the table while I secretly wonder if my life was a mistake. At times taking my confusion out on my brother not understanding the madness...
Getting assurance from my grandmother the eternal sage...
Looking at that sorry hundred dollar check I get a month from my pops knowing he is living in the burbs while I live in a roach infested poverty stricken neighborhood. The only fatherly assurance I got from him was pain, spiritual abuse which fed my ever teetering world. Black history to me is remembering the two soldiers that held the anchor which kept me from falling over edge of the earth.
Black History Month for me is paying homage to the two pillars that kept my foundation from crumbling. Black History is much more than idolizing those intangible people of the past but those right there in front of you.. Those that gave you the principles of knowledge, wisdom & understanding. I love all those that pave the way but my love goes deeper to those that help the God manifest.
A Tribe Called Quest Stressed Out