saturday

They are used to the routine. Yet they still attempt to stand strong. All of them stand strong. Thousands of them stand strong. All of them, black and thick, stand strong against the oppressive whiteness. They fight because they don't know how not to. When it looks like they are down for the count—one, then, two, then, five, then, ten—they all spring back up. They stand defiantly, facing the oppressive whiteness that threatens to lay them out for certain. Kill them dead. They hate to endure it, and I hate to watch it. But another revolution will come in six weeks. I'd rather not spend my Saturdays locked in a beauty shop getting a relaxer.