I learned them on the page first. Fell apart and assembled notions of suicide,
held brilliant pain, Beloved, in the hands of a mother saving her baby from slavery.
Felt the throb of each purple bruise on Miss Celie’s back blister and turn blue.
Heard the silence that consumes a man, proving Black Boys are invisible—still. Knew caged birds
would sing their way to freedom as long as their eyes stayed on Him. Prayed Pecola would discover the beauty
that stretches beyond her skin. Learned compassion is the greatest lesson before dying, and all that lies within.
And yet we still omit stories, black-out pages, broken fragments in a forgotten land. We should cement
these words in history, not conceal truths and label them banned. What I know is there are still
children who haven’t heard Maya’s name. Haven’t viewed God through the eyes of Zora, haven’t heard her bitter
twisted refrain. Haven’t wailed on the mount with Baldwin, or spoke of divergent dreams with Lorraine. Haven’t read
the history of immortal generations, or discovered inexplicable truths with Wright, unlocked freedom
with Alexander, or saw Claude turn ghettos to promised lands at night. Some children still don’t know the fire
passion of Malcolm, the beauty of Native Son. They will never know where they’re headed
until they see all the immaculate places they’ve come from.