Between the Lines of Time

I was born beneath the hum of neon,

under Reagan’s watchful eye,

when boom boxes roared on street corners

and dreams were sold in lullabies.

Mama pressed hope into my small hands,

braided lessons through my hair.

“Work twice as hard,” she whispered low,

“and still, they may not play fair.”

I grew up in the echoes of Rodney’s cries,

saw flames lick at the City of Angels.

Learned that justice was a coin flip,

and history rewrote its own fables.

I walked the halls where whispers curled—

“Affirmative action, that’s why he’s here.”

As if my sweat and sleepless nights

were debts paid off in fear.

Then came an era draped in “Hope,”

a name carved into history’s door.

We stood taller, breathed in deeper—

until the tide pulled us once more.

I watched a man call for air,

pinned beneath the weight of hate.

Watched a woman sleep, then vanish,

her name a hashtag, far too late.

They teach our pain like history books,

detached, as if it’s old.

Yet here I stand, a living verse,

the story still unfolds.

Still, we rise, though weary-boned,

still, we fight to claim our place.

Still, we craft our children’s dreams,

wrapped in love, armed with grace.

I am the bridge between two worlds,

where past and present weave and fray.

A child of echoes, marching forward,

refusing to fade away.