History walking The Earth

I adore the skin I’m in

midnight brushed with memory,

sunset with survival.

I love being Black,

love being African American,

love knowing my story didn’t start with chains

and won’t end with struggle.

Some say we’ve stood

on the wrong side of history

as if history is a plantation, a courtroom

and we were the accused.

But I say we are the witnesses.

The evidence.

The authors writing truth in the margins

when the pages tried to leave us out.

We are the right side of history

the rhythm side,

the drumbeat that refused to quiet down.

The side that turned sorrow into spirituals,

into jazz notes bending but never breaking,

into hip-hop verses that testify

in hoodies and halos the same.

We are the fun side of history

laughter loud at barbecues and reunions, 

dominoes slamming like declarations,

Aunties dancing when the song even drops.

Joy is our rebellion.

Style is our language. 

Flavor is our signature. Our culture.

And we have more history in our pinky fingers

than textbooks dare to ever hold

kings and queens before cotton fields,

inventors before they were credited,

dreamers before they were televised.

From boats to protests,

from porch swings to podiums—

we have always been becoming.

Hell,

we are history.

Walking, breathing, beautiful history.

Not just chapters,

but whole libraries in motion.

We are walking history lessons.

I adore being Black

because when I look in the mirror,

I don’t just see myself

I see ancestors smiling back,

and descendants waiting ahead.

And I stand tall

knowing I am not on the wrong side of history.

I am living proof

that history chose well.

That We. Are. History!