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There’s a fire within me that burns just as steadily as the planets rotate around the sun. It’s lava runs through my veins and recycles itself so that the fire never goes out.

I Am Miss Black America.

I’m like a child who lost their mother at birth. I sense people I’ve never met, a past I’ve never touched. I hunger for knowledge it seems I’ve already known. It feels I’ve been here before.

I Am Miss Black America.

My hips. My lips. My Soul Sistah Sizzle that just won’t quit! I’m as flavorful as a seasoned cast iron skillet, cuz oooh baby– You know nothin’ cooks like it.

I Am Miss Black America.

Skin scorched by the sun, and aches & pains, and well-cotton, sugar cane, tobacco, and well…what else is there to make me harvest for free….

I Am Miss Black America.

The struggle. The fight. Black Power fist held high at the Olympic games. Doo Woppin’ at Motown, to Moonwalkin’ across the Wall of China. Damn, did we just paint the White House black?

I Am Miss Black America.

I birthed Martin, nursed Fredrick, put FIRE to the ass of Malcom BEFORE he changed his last name to X. Cooked dinner for Harriet, pressed out Sojourner’s hair, and still had time to perm Jesse’s. I told Langston, Zora & Charlie an’dem that Harlem was the spot. And Right before I named Atlanta the “Black Mecca,” I invented Jazz and taught Hip how to Hop.

I Am Miss Black America.

The Middle Passage. The Auction Block. Slavery. Segregation. A Jim Crow South. Non violent, Non violent. By any means necessary. Rodney King meets the LAPD. Black boy learns DWB. “Ya’ll got Obama, ya’ll must be free!”

Are we?

I Am Miss Black America.

-jaz

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