Asher Oleah
They told us history was written,
ink dried, margins fixed
never even if asked for permission.
But we are still here.
In the breath between names,
in the stories passed hand to hand,
mouth to ear,
heartbeat to heartbeat.
We come from people who learned
how to live anyway.
Who made music out of silence,
who turned hunger into rhythm,
who taught joy to survive in small rooms.
They renamed us, erased us,
filed us under property and footnote,
but forgot one thing,
we remember ourselves.
We remember in salons and barbershops,
in laughter that refuses to be quiet,
in grief that knows how to kneel
and still stand.
Black history is not only what was stolen.
It is what was carried.
What was protected.
What was loved fiercely enough
to outlive the fire.
So this month, don’t ask us only
where we’ve been.
Ask how we endured.
Ask how we dreamed anyway.
Ask how something so targeted
could remain so alive.