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Sacrifice

Although black history should be a part of American history it isn’t. Therefore, I’m going to celebrate this month. When it comes to my ancestors, it’s important that I spend some time everyday thinking about their sacrifice for me.

They were beaten, stripped of clothes and self-respect. Torn from their families, and the ones they loved. For some, they couldn’t even be with the ones they loved. And what for?

For this moment right now. For the fact that I can go to a coffee shop or library with all kinds of different people and type this. For the fact that I can read and write to type anything. So what am I doing with their sacrifices?

Right now, what would I want my ancestors to say if they were alive and could see me?

With this life that many of our ancestors fought for us to have, black and white, what am I doing to make them wish they could see me?

I know what I can’t do. I can’t complain about being too tired to write.

I know what I can’t do. I can’t spend more time watching TV than I do intellectually stimulating myself.

And I know what I won’t do. I won’t live another day as if I don’t know the sacrifices that have been made for me.

I will not roll out of bed as if there isn’t a bed of opportunity waiting on me.

And I refuse to have people sacrifice in vain.

My ancestors sacrificed. And if they were here now, I would want them to know that it was for a good cause.

Me.

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