A Black Rose

Some say they don't see color. Although I understand the phrase in the deepest sense... If I said it I would be denying the fact that I saw it when I saw her and it was the most beautiful version of human. It wasn't just the melanin that was responsible for her lively character. It was the bright smile, the heart, the passion, her dance, the way she spoke, and most importantly— what people fail to see when color rubs them salty... It was her soul. It was like the soil she grew from never lacked water or seed. Although misguided at times she found her path. Not everyone operates that way. Geography kept her strong; she first bloomed in the bay. In Oakland. We took a walk down her block and she'd turn to me and say, "Sometimes I wish I was blind to society's flaws; institutionalized by the governments laws... You would think after years of fighting against all odds...evolution would of provided my people with claws... On my block...I take a second...and pause...thinking about how my RIGHTS had to be written into laws...while for others it was just a birth right given from God."

We talk about injustice because it's everywhere. We think of ways to fight— ways to reverse what hundreds of years have fed to our shaky foundation leaving us malnourished. Our conversations are heavy and smiles are belated. Our roots both torn away...Loss of parents. I felt it early on and still struggle at best but when her mom took flight I felt it all over again deep in my chest. No words, no actions can be of remedy. We try to walk steadily but know that revolution requires running and fighting. The majority is thunder but she is lightning: Striking. Strong. Bright. Dark skin that envelopes the majority and makes them look dull. If only society could love her as much as I do... If they could see that every aspect of her represents strength and the desire to carry the world on her shoulders even though she already does for simply existing in a different shade. She is one of the reasons I stand on stage. We cause rage by exclaiming that she is black and her life matters. Does it not? Or do lives only matter when they can be bought? Used at the discretion of our masters? The father of America made us all bastards... Destroyed our mothers' earth and rotated us backwards. We are caged... So we... Grasped hands and formed the tightest of braids that tugs at the scalp of white America in the same way the children tug on our clothes after long days. My heart breaks that they don't even know what they are in for. That the soil they play in is composed of human cells shed from the ones crawling from pain. The ones like us who are just trying to exist without being placed in a planter box. Trying to be forced to become something we are not.

See... People know of black roses as being fictional or in images... wrapped in plastic on corner store counter tops sold for a low price...a last minute item. They don't know that she is real and exists with a deep, dark flesh that keeps growing beyond average heights. No price tag could ever represent her worth. When naturally grown they are rare; an endangered species. I will protect her from the pesticides that exist in abundance. From anyone who feels she is better off shot, suffocated, beaten, restrained and still met with lethal force. Questions can no longer be presented after the fact. They must happen now because she represents the collective... the magical black woman. If you don't see color, you are discounting and depriving yourself of the most beautiful black rose to exist.