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Kwanzaa's Declaration

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We declare in the name of the Ancestors who survived what was meant to erase them. We declare by drumbeat, heartbeat, and holy fire we are STILL HERE. Not broken. Not borrowed. Not finished. Kwanzaa is not a holiday it is a homecoming . Umoja rises in the room. Unity not as theory, but as choice. As practice. As promise. I will not survive alone. Kujichagulia lives in our mouths self-determination naming us when the world gets it wrong. We speak ourselves free. Ujima... hands linked, shoulders touching. Because freedom is too heavy to carry solo. Ujamaa... love circulating like currency. We invest in our own because survival taught us how. Nia... purpose in every step. Every breath an assignment. We are not lost. We are intentional. Kuumba... turning pain into beauty, beauty into prophecy. We make something sacred out of everything. Imani... faith when the evidence is thin. Faith when the road is long. Faith in us. Now light the candles. Red. for the struggle that sharpened...
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I Name Myself

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I Name Myself  I name myself with the power of our Ancestors... So before the world tries to rename me. Before history edits my breath, before systems measure my worth in survival alone. I name myself with a mouth full of ancestors, tongue heavy with memory, spine straightened by those who walked so I could stand. Kujichagulia... self-determination is not a slogan. It is a decision I wake up and make even when fear is loud, even when doubt knocks like it belongs here. I choose courage not because I am unafraid, but because my ancestors didn’t have the luxury of waiting until fear left the room. They moved with it. I move with it. ----------------------- I choose faith when the path disappears beneath my feet, when the future refuses to show me the whole picture. Faith is not blind it is ancestral sight. It is trusting the hands that carried me here will not drop me now. I hear them. In my silence. In my decisions. In the moments I refuse to shrink. They whisper: Stand u...
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A Conversation without Words

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  We were fluent in the language no one teaches. No mouths moving. No sound breaking the air. Just eyes brave enough to speak what lips were too afraid to confess. Across crowded rooms, our glances found each other like magnets remembering their purpose. Blink. Pause. Hold. That was a paragraph. A tilt of the head that was a question. The slow inhale behind your eyes that was an answer that changed everything. We said  Are you okay? We said  I see you. We said  I know you’re trying. All without a single syllable leaving our bodies. Our eyes held secrets that would’ve collapsed under the weight of sound. They carried history, hesitation, hunger immeasurable conversations compressed into seconds that stretched like eternity. In that silence, we told the truth. We spoke about longing without asking for permission. We admitted fear without shame. We confessed love without demanding a response. Because some connections are too sacred to be spoken aloud. Our ey...
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Agape

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This is not just a friendship. This is an arrival. The kind of knowing that feels ancient, like our spirits shook hands before our mouths ever learned each other’s names. We laugh... not the polite kind, but the soul-loosening, tear-in-the-eye, bend-at-the-waist laughter that reminds me joy is holy work. With you, silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels listened to. Like God is sitting between us, nodding. Our conversations don’t skim the surface... we dive. Into purpose. Into pain. Into prayer. We speak truth without bruising each other, hold mirrors instead of stones, correct with compassion, and love with intention. That’s agape. Love that doesn’t keep score. Love that stays... Love. that. says, “I see you fully...I do. and I’m not afraid.” You honor my becoming. You respect my boundaries like sacred ground. You celebrate my light without trying to borrow it. And in your faith your devotion, your way of loving God out loud from your soul... I am reminded that belief can be ...
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The Weight Of

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“The Weight Of" I. The Soft Openings I am the kind of person who can cry over a panda and a cat sharing a bowl of sunlight, two creatures that don’t even speak the same language but still understand the vocabulary of gentleness. That kind of softness does something to me It opens a door in my chest I didn’t even realize I’d locked to survive. Some days, wonder sneaks up on me like a child tugging my sleeve saying, “Look. Look at how beautiful the world can be.” And I do. And I break a little. And I heal a little more. II. The Weight of the World But being sensitive I mean really sensitive is a job with no clock-out time. I watch the news, and the hurt of strangers clings to me like smoke in my clothes. Every headline is a prayer or a warning, and I carry both because my soul doesn’t know how to travel light. I feel the tremble behind every mother’s voice, the shaking in a city after sirens stop, the quiet of a community trying to remember how to breathe again. And I wo...
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A Mother With No Name

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Let me tell you about a mother with no name... A mother who went places no soul should ever map. A mother who walked through hell with her bare feet and her heart wide open just to drag her babies back. See… Pain didn’t knock on her door politely. No. It kicked it in. It came screaming. It came unforgiving. One child Her child woke up one morning to a body that betrayed her. Legs that used to dance now locked like doors that forgot how to open. And this mother… this mother learned to lift more than weight she lifted worlds. She lifted hope. She lifted her child's spirit even when her own was collapsing. And her other baby… God help her her other baby got shot. Not once. Not twice. Eleven times. Eleven bullets like punctuation marks trying to end a story she refused to let die. She sat in hospital rooms where time stops breathing. She held hands that shook like falling ceilings. She bargained with God, with nurses, with destiny, with whatever for...
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TO THE ONES WHO STAY

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 TO THE ONES WHO STAY  There are people in this life who don’t share my blood, but they carry my spirit like a soft lantern they keep lit even on the nights I lose my own fire. These are my people my good friends, my chosen kin, the ones who step into my life and love me like they’ve been rehearsing it for generations. See… some folks are friends by title, but the real ones the ones I’m talking about they love you in verbs. In action. In that “I’ll pull up right now” energy. In that “you don’t gotta explain…just breathe, I’m here” consistency. These are the friends who become family, the family who become home, the home that become sanctuary. They’re the people who look at me and don’t just see who I am they see everything I survived to get here. They know the chapters I don’t read out loud, the pages I burned, the margins where I wrote prayers in handwriting too shaky to share. And still, they stayed. Still, they loved me. Still, they he...
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