“Lyonnaise glory,  Goethe…

Grace Darling, Great Maiden’s Blush…”

-From The Old Rose Reader

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These roses, dating back centuries, were noted with care for a resemblance, their beauty, or their scent. Each specimen is studied and admired for its uniqueness.

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Also dating back centuries was a desire for slave labor. African names and tribes were forgotten, and after a few generations, so was past freedom. Great care was taken to ensure that they were dehumanized; no longer individuals, but commodities to be bought, sold, and discarded as their masters saw fit.

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Today, descendants of slaves in America are still wading through the residual waters of marginalization. The old rose can climb fences, and open her bloom for fireflies to nap. She is creamy white and mixed with pink, with a bit of yellow in the center, or a velvet crimson. She can change her growth habit depending on nature or her mood. We, the kin of the people whose backs were broken to build this nation, are all viewed through the same distorted lens; from drug dealers to presidents. We are welfare queens. We are uneducated criminals. We are armed... A bouquet of generalizations.