II. July 3rd, 2025 — On the Anniversary of Pickett’s Charge for the bones beneath the wheat They marched across that field 162 years ago today— boys in butternut and gray, some dreaming of glory, some just hungry, some fighting to keep my people in chains. And the ground, Lord, the ground — it swallowed them like a verdict. Hot lead. Cannon fire. Smoke so thick it hid the shame. July 3rd, 1863 — they called it gallantry. I call it a death spasm, the final thrust of a slaveholder’s sword, shattered in Union flame. Pickett’s Charge — doomed before the first boot stepped forward. Do they not teach this plain truth? That this day, this march, was not the climax of the South, but the beginning of its end? Because what died that day wasn’t just the charge. It was the myth. The lie. The rot wrapped in honor. The gospel of cotton and chains. And now, in 2025, I walk free on this earth they tried to steal. I speak, I love, I build, I breathe — Black breath, Black blood, Black joy unbought. And I remember — not just to mourn the dead, but to celebrate the failing of evil. They charged. They fell. And the world changed. Not all at once, but forever. Let this day be marked. Not with glory. But with truth. And the thunder of our continuing steps.