By: Kristen Small
“To be black and conscious in America is to be in a constant state of rage.”
— James Baldwin
The ancestor’s sentiments permeate deep into my psyche. The relevance and truth of these words are ever present as the depth of my frustration rises to fruition when even the simplest affirmation of my existence is met with visceral resistance.
“Black. Lives. Matter.”
For some reason this foundational truth needs continual explanation and validation. For some reason these words ring as more of an exclusion than a declaration. For some reason this statement inspires scrutiny and offense as if the acknowledgement of my personhood is an attack on another’s.
“Black. Lives. Matter.”
These words are a call to justice, a call to life, a call to love. Within the cadence of each syllable are the souls of our lineage, the heart of our ancestry, their lives in our lungs. When we speak this truth, we call them forward, position them beside us, and pay homage to every Black life past, present and future.
Every life that should have mattered, we call light into hidden spaces and uncover history’s genocide and shame.
Every life that does matter, we voice valiantly for your existence, equity and well-being.
Every life that will matter, we speak peace, celebrate your sovereignty and courageously embody healing and hope for generations to come
“Black. Lives. Matter.”
Exhaustion nor disdain will hinder this refrain. The rage of consciousness is only fuel to the fire of obtaining “liberty and justice for all.” I pledge my allegiance to this mission through this mantra of love. Solid and secure; unwavering and unhindered; I resound wholeheartedly…
“Black. Lives. Matter.”