Phoenix Nevermore

JUNETEENTH

I wanted to do something deep.
I wanted to inspire you on Juneteenth.
But…

What could I say
that hasn’t already been sung in chains
or whispered through bloodlines?

What could I write
that doesn’t feel like a prayer
we’ve already prayed a thousand times?

I wanted to celebrate—
really, I did.
But there’s something about “freedom”
that still gets stuck in my throat.
Still comes with a disclaimer.
Still comes with a bruise.

We were freed in ink
before we were freed in action.
And even then,
freedom came with footnotes,
revisions,
addendums that read like
“Don’t get too free.”

We got Juneteenth—
but we still got cops who fight those who kneel.
We got statues built—
And still breathe in air thick with fear
when the blue lights hit the rear(view).
We got holidays—
but we don’t always get justice.
And I’m supposed to write something deep?

Okay.

Here’s what’s deep—
My grandmother flinched
when she heard sirens.
She would pray under her breath,
even when no one was sick.
Because survival taught her
God needed reminders.

Here’s what’s deep—
My son learned to say “Yes, sir”
before he could spell his own name.
And I had to teach him how to hold his tongue
when being questioned
like his words were weapons.

Here’s what’s deep—
I’ve watched Black men hold back tears
at funerals for friends that didn’t grow old.
I’ve heard Black women laugh too loud
to hide the silence of never being held.
We mourn while we work,
smile while we ache,
and get called resilient
when we’re really just tired.

Here’s what’s deep—
That we still show up
to jobs that underpay us,
to schools that don’t see us,
to tables we weren’t invited to—
and make room anyway.
We mentor.
We nurture.
We build.
And we rarely get thanked
without being asked to be “grateful.”

I wanted to inspire you on Juneteenth.
But what I REALLY want
is for inspiration
to no longer have to come
from overcoming.

I want rest
without it being revolutionary.
Joy that doesn’t need an asterisk.
I want our babies to dream
without the world telling them
they need to work twice as hard
for half as much.

I want to stop surviving,
and start being.

Because we are more
than our trauma.
We are not just the screams
echoing from auction blocks.
We are the hymns that rose
above every whip.
We are the whispers of Harriet’s footsteps.
The blueprint of resistance.
The sweet tea poured over porch talk.
The beat in every step team stomp.
The silk headscarf and the durag.
The shea butter and the sandalwood.
The kiss of brown skin in golden hour.

We are Sunday dinners and patio wisdom.
We are dance circles at cookouts and thunderous AMENs.
We are the rhythm that never needed permission.
We are the curves of the continent,
the walk, the talk, the magic in motion.
We are the poetry before the poem.
We are the dream Dr. King only touched the hem of.
We are survival and softness.
We are love wrapped in melanin,
grief tucked behind lashes,
and hope braided into baby hairs.
We are the reason freedom keeps trying.

You made it through.
We made it through.

And that deserves more than a post,
a flag,
or a plate of barbecue.

It deserves a vow.
A promise.

That we will keep loving out loud.
Keep holding each other.
Keep teaching our babies that rest is their birthright.
And our joy?
Our joy is our protest.

So yes,
I wanted to do something deep.
Well... maybe I just did.

- Phoenix Nevermore