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My Rib Struggles To Breathe

Posted in faith, God, law, money, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, war, workTagged , , , , Leave a comment

March 1, 2026

God of dirt under fingernails, of headlines and heartbeats, of babies born into chaos
and mamas who don’t sleep.
Lord hear our prayer
Sit with us in sackcloth and ash.

Hear the Latina scream for her familia.
Hear the Black mama beat her chest
from the weight of knees and crushed souls
Hear the confused person of no color
whisper, “Am I next?”

See my father’s shadow.
The brown father working double shifts
with documents that feel like paper shields.
The Black father teaching his son
how to survive a traffic stop.
The father from somewhere else
trying to sound less foreign
so his children sound more safe.

The one who has never been taught how to weep, but learns that privileged skin
offers no protection.

Watch how they swallow fear so their families can eat.
Watch how they stand tall while history presses down.
Do not turn Your face from the trembling.

Is Abraham’s argument still valid?
Is there still one worth saving?
If there are fifty…
If there are forty…
If there are ten…
Will mercy outrun destruction?

Because we be something else.
We invent vaccines and vendettas.
We cure disease and cultivate grudges.
We build greenhouses and graveyards
in the same generation.

We scream “save the babies” while demanding their mothers bleed in parking lots outside buildings bearing neon  crosses and snakes on stakes.

And if that little bundle of hope
takes breath….. we ration mercy.
We starve truth. We feed them fear.
We hand them a system and call it destiny.

Forgive us for mistaking loud for strong,
revenge for justice,
power for wisdom,
money for mattering.

Slow the hands hovering over buttons.
Cool the tongues that set nations on fire.
Remind the mighty that bleeding does not discriminate.

When leaders puff up,
deflate egos with a firm hand.
When citizens rage-scroll at 3:33 a.m.,
tuck them back into cradles of mercy.

Teach us that being right is not the same thing as being righteous.

And teach us this, Lord –
That Holy is set apart, not divided asunder.

Set apart does not mean split down the middle.
It does not mean camps or corners
or color-coded salvation.

Holy is not red. Holy is not blue. Holy is not loud.

Holy is careful. Holy is weighty.
Holy is handled like heirloom glass passed from trembling hands.

Do not let us carve You up to fit our arguments.
Do not let us drape Your name over fear and call it faith.

If we must be set apart, let it be in compassion.
If we must be different, let it be in mercy.
Separate us from cruelty.
Separate us from arrogance.
Separate us from the need to win
at the cost of one another.

But do not divide us beyond repair.
Remind us that what is sacred is never meant to be torn.

Lord Hear Our Prayer

For the refugee in the cold,
the soldier on watch,
the child learning history from a textbook that left something out —
Cover them.

Guard democracy like a fragile seedling in late frost.
Guard dignity like Grandma’s good china.
Guard hope like a porch light left on for whoever comes home late.

When we start thinking the sky is falling,
Whisper,
“Dead and dormant are not the same thing.”

Let wars stall. Let hatred get tired. Let truth outlive the loud.

And if we must walk through fire, let it burn off what is false and leave what is faithful.

While presidents posture and pundits perform
Let ordinary people sleep.
Let Nama rest. Let grandchildren dream of gardens instead of sirens.

My bladed pen is hot. It does not drip ink.
It draws blood from silence. It refuses anesthesia. I tire  of gentle prayers that never name the wound.

If my words burn, let them cauterize.
If they cut, let them carve truth
from marble lies.

Out of all the people in this great big world,
please hear me. Please know my voice.
Hear me when I pray.
For I will not whisper  when my rib struggles to breathe.

Amen.  Ameen. Aṣẹ̀ Olódùmarè. Selah. Shanti. Alafia. Tathāstu. Ubuntu

from Poems My Mama Would Have Wrote ( If She Had Been Allowed”
Althea’s Daughter: Michelle Gillison-Robinson

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You Are Black History

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Black history does not live only in textbooks, timelines, or framed portraits. It lives in you.


It lives in the prayers your grandmother whispered that no one recorded. It lives in the courage it took for your parents and grandparents to keep going when quitting would have been easier.

It lives in the way you show up to work, to church, to community, to family — even when the reward is unclear.


Black history is not only something that happened. It is something that is still happening.


It is made every time you choose dignity over bitterness. Every time you carry joy in a system that profits from your exhaustion. Every time you tell the truth — even quietly. Every time you endure, love, build, teach, heal, or believe anyway.


Some names were written down. Many were not.
Some stories were celebrated. Many were survived.
But history is not only what is remembered — it is what continues.


You stand on the shoulders of those who were victorious without reward. Those who served faithfully without applause. Those who planted seeds they would never live to see bloom.


Their courage flows through you.


And we have always known how to leave something behind.


Breadcrumbs on the ground when the path was uncertain. Hushpuppies tossed not as waste, but as wisdom — a way to distract danger long enough to keep moving. Cornrows braided tight to the scalp, not only as beauty or tradition, but as memory — paths etched into hair, holding maps to water, to safety, to freedom.


What could not be written down was carried. What could not be spoken aloud was encoded. What could not be protected by law was protected by love, community, and God.


This was not myth. This was method.
A people learning how to survive systems designed to erase them — by remembering anyway.


If you are still leaving breadcrumbs for those coming behind you… still marking the way quietly… still choosing faith, dignity, and care when no one is watching…
You are doing what has always been done.


You are part of a holy lineage of guidance and endurance. A living echo of the God who makes a way where none seems visible and leads His people forward, step by step.


“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
— Galatians 6:9
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
— Psalm 119:105


If you are still standing, still hoping, still loving, still reaching for God and for one another — you are Black history in motion.
Not just because of where you came from, but because of how you choose to live.


We see you. We honor you. You matter.
Love, Chelle

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Pig Foot Mary: The Woman Who Pushed Her Future Down the Street

Posted in Black History Month, faith, food, God, inspiration, money, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment


Before food trucks.  Before catering contracts.
Before pop-up kitchens. There was a formerly enslaved Black woman  pushing a baby carriage filled with pickled pig’s feet.

Her name was Lillian Harris Dean. History remembers her as Pig Foot Mary. And what some would have called scraps, she called strategy.

Born in Mississippi around 1870. She migrated north during the Great Migration era. She was reported a woman of large stature (striking fear in even some men).

THE BABY CARRIAGE BEGINNING

After emancipation, economic opportunity for Black women was painfully narrow. Formal loans were not available. Property ownership was rare. Protection under the law was inconsistent at best.

So Mary did what resilient women have always done. She looked at what she had.
She cooked pig’s feet — inexpensive cuts that working people could afford — and loaded them into a baby carriage. That’s  right no baby, just a baby carriage purchased with two of the five dollars she arrived with and a tin pot she brought with her.

Then she walked the streets of Washington, D.C., selling directly to laborers, porters, and government workers who had migrated from the South but desperate for a taste of home cooking lacking in the industrial north.

No storefront. No investors. No safety net.
Just legs, grit, and a carriage. That carriage gave her mobility. Mobility gave her customers. Customers gave her capital.
Capital gave her options. Consistency built reputation. Reputation built revenue.

From those early street sales, though unable to read, she negotiated contracts with suppliers, opened restaurants, operated boarding houses, acquired property, and became one of the wealthiest Black women in New York City  during her time. She later married a prominent black lawyer she had hired to keep her financial empire safe.

Later in life, she faced legal troubles that interrupted her business, a common vulnerability for Black entrepreneurs in that era. When her power and influence started to invade beyond the black community and into  white upper Manhattan,  a racist court system convicted her of running a disorderly house.    After her release from prison, she retired to California.

She did not inherit influence. She built it.
She did not wait for approval. She moved.

Pig Foot Mary represents a pattern we see over and over in Black history:
Innovation born from restriction.
Mobility created from limitation.
Enterprise rising from overlooked ingredients.

She took something humble and made it sustaining.

“She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.” — Proverbs 31:16

Mary did not own fields at first. She owned a route. But the principle is the same.
Use what you have. Work what you have.
Move what you have.

CARRY THIS WITH YOU
You may be waiting for a storefront when all you have is a carriage. Push anyway.

You may be waiting for funding when all you have is a recipe. Cook anyway.

You may be waiting for someone to validate the vision. Walk anyway.

BREADCRUMB

Sometimes the business plan is wrapped in something people underestimate. And sometimes the thing you’re pushing… is actually pushing you into destiny.

We see you, Lillian Harris Dean for turning a baby carriage into a business model. We see you for feeding working hands and building wealth from what others discarded.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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Pauli Murray – She Was The Blueprint

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, law, relationships, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , Leave a comment

Before the Supreme Court corrected segregation, before women stood firmly in constitutional protection, before pulpits widened for Black women Pauli Murray had already written the argument.

At Howard University School of Law in the 1940s, she challenged the foundation of “separate but equal.” While others argued for better facilities, Murray insisted segregation itself violated the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.
Her professors thought it too bold.

Years later, that reasoning formed the backbone of Brown v. Board of Education. Thurgood Marshall reportedly called her earlier research “the Bible” of the civil rights movement. She was not the headline.
She was the framework.

In 1965, she co-authored a groundbreaking paper arguing that the Fourteenth Amendment prohibited discrimination based on sex. When Ruth Bader Ginsburg later argued landmark gender equality cases, she cited Murray’s work directly.
Again — blueprint.

In 1966, she helped co-found the National Organization for Women, shaping modern women’s advocacy.

And in 1940, long before Rosa Parks became a household name, Murray was arrested for refusing to move to the back of a segregated bus. Her resistance was deliberate and strategic.

Then came the church.
In 1977, she became the first Black woman ordained as an Episcopal priest. The ceremony took place in the same chapel where her grandmother, born into slavery, had once been baptized. The descendant of the enslaved stood at the altar as clergy.

History does not always move through loud voices. Sometimes it moves through disciplined minds and stubborn faith.

Murray battled depression. She navigated belonging in spaces slow to affirm her. She lived at intersections the world had not yet learned to name. But she did not step away.
She studied. She wrote. She organized. She stayed.

And because she stayed, the law shifted.
Because she wrote, others argued and won.
Because she persisted, doors opened wider than they had ever been before.

Prophetic work is not always applause.
Sometimes it is architecture.

Isaiah 1:17
“Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.”


CARRY THIS WITH YOU
You may not be the headline.
But you might be the hinge.
Build anyway.
Stay steady.
History often rests on frameworks laid by those who refuse to quit.

BREADCRUMB
Sometimes the victory is not in the spotlight but in the structure. Sometimes the reward is not applause but impact. Write the argument. Lay the foundation. Stay in the room.


SALUTE
We honor Pauli Murray — legal architect, movement strategist, priest, and prophet.
We salute the mind that shaped arguments before the nation was ready to hear them.
We salute the courage that resisted before resistance was popular. We salute the faith that answered a call even when institutions hesitated.

Your blueprint stands.
Your work endures.
Your name is not a footnote.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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Horace And Rose: A Civil Rights Love Story

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( Condensed Excerpt)

Horace & Rose Gillison — A Civil Rights Love Story

For Black History Month, I want to honor two people whose legacy shaped not only my family, but the city of Richmond itself: Rev. Horace Gillison and Rose Gillison, my great-uncle and great-aunt. Their civil rights work did not always make headlines—but it changed systems.


Before they ever met, they came from very different worlds. Horace was a Virginia country boy with barely a sixth-grade formal education, big ideas, and—by most accounts—a big mouth. Others saw his limited schooling and dismissed him. Horace saw no limits at all. He believed doors were meant to be opened, systems challenged, and no one was qualified to tell him what could not be done.


Rose was polished and poised, barely grown, hailing from North Carolina before family loss dictated a move to Virginia to live with cousins. Where others saw Horace as rough around the edges, Rose became—for him—a beautiful princess of a challenge. And Horace loved a challenge.


Rose maintained a bail fund solely for Horace’s protests and sit-ins, understanding that resistance required preparation as much as courage. Horace challenged Richmond institutions like Thalhimers and Miller & Rhoads, demanding they hire college-educated Black women on their sales floors. He later took great joy in seeing that pressure bear fruit when I secured my first professional job in their credit offices—proof that justice delayed is not justice denied.


He rattled newspapers by insisting they run his ads—with his beautiful Black skin in all its glory—or face legal action. He was also arrested for earning a pilot’s license in Virginia and flying a plane to Culpeper so his mother could experience his joy of flight.

He was arrested again for attempting to sell a house to a Black family in the then all white neighborhood I now live in. He was rumored to have taken black families to house showings in rented limousines.

When Firestone Tire—a place where Black customers could barely purchase goods, let alone work—hired him as their first Black salesman, Horace did not simply succeed. He excelled.

Together, Horace and Rose ran soup kitchens, Christian charities, wig shops, and a modeling school that taught Black women poise, job readiness, and confidence—quietly fueling economic growth in local Black families. Rose’s porcelain beauty and charm made her the perfect choice to become one of the first Black spokespersons for Carnation Milk during the war. Horace ministered churches and broke corporate barriers as the first Black member of the Richfood board.

Their love story was just as intentional as their activism.

They met at a birthday party—for Horace’s then girlfriend. Upon seeing Rose, Horace declared, “That’s the woman I will marry.”

Rose did not make it easy. Before accepting his proposal, she handed him a list: get a good job, secure transportation, build a house. Each time Horace returned with a checkmark, she added another requirement—a lesson she later passed down to the women in our family: know your worth and make him work for it.

When Horace finally had enough, he arrived with friends, a new dress, and a pair of nylons—nearly impossible to find at the time—and dragged her to the courthouse.

They would reach their fiftieth wedding anniversary before Rose declared they finally had what she considered a proper wedding. Loving attended by 4 generations of the Gillison family

Though they never had biological children, Horace and Rose adopted two, fostered many more, and opened their lives wide enough to shape generations. Their influence rippled through the Gillison family and beyond—teaching love without limitation, legacy without bloodlines, and the quiet truth that family is often chosen, cultivated, and sustained by intention.

Lives, I believed patterned straight from the Bible;
“Learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression.” — Isaiah 1:17
“Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.” — Amos 5:24
“Two are better than one… because they have a good reward for their labor.” — Ecclesiastes 4:9


Horace learned to do good and refused to wait for permission. Rose ensured that righteousness had structure and love behind it. Together, they made justice move.


BREADCRUMB
Justice does not roll on its own.
Someone has to push.
Someone has to prepare.
Someone has to stand side by side when the system pushes back.


Legacy does not always look like applause.
Sometimes it looks like a bail fund.
Sometimes it looks like insisting your image run in full color.
Sometimes it looks like flying anyway.


SALUTE
We see you, Rev. Horace Gillison and Rose Gillison — for seeking justice, correcting oppression, and laboring together so the stream would keep moving and building an extended family that walks in your shoes while still standing on your shoulders.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.



This is a condensed excerpt from the forthcoming work,

Horace and Rose: A Civil Rights Love Story.

Love,
Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Bill “Bojangles” Robinson — The Man Who Danced Forward

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , 2 Comments

Born in 1878 in Richmond’s Jackson Ward, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson did not inherit ease. He inherited survival.

Orphaned young, he found rhythm before he found security. Instead of letting the world bend his back, he stood straight and tapped anyway.

He did not shuffle.

He clarified tap. Clean lines. Upright posture. Dignity in every strike of the shoe.

He
• Redefined tap dancing
• Became one of the highest-paid entertainers of his era
• Performed with excellence on segregated stages without lowering himself
• Created the legendary stair dance
• Gave generously back to Richmond

And when the city would not install a traffic light in Jackson Ward to protect Black children crossing the street, he did not argue.

He reached into his own pocket. He paid for the light. Not for praise. For protection.

Today his bronze statue stands in Jackson Ward beneath that light, shoes mid step, forever guarding the intersection.

On screen with Shirley Temple, he smiled.
Off screen, he built safety.

And Scripture whispers underneath his steps:

“Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men.”
— Proverbs 22:29

He stood before kings.
But he made sure children could cross safely at home.

From Jackson Ward to Broadway lights, he proved something we still hold close:

You can climb the stairs without bowing.
And you can light the street when the city will not.

And somewhere in Jackson Ward, if you listen close enough, you can still hear the stairs answering his shoes.

May we be the kind of people who do not just climb them, but leave the light on behind us.


BREADCRUMB
Sometimes progress dances—and still changes the street.


We see you, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson — for dancing forward and making the way safer behind you.


Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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Lucy Diggs Slowe — The Woman Who Wouldn’t Play Small

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Lucy Diggs Slowe was born in 1885, right here in Virginia. Sharp-minded. Observant. The kind of girl who noticed early on when the rules didn’t quite add up—and instead of shrugging, she kept the numbers in her head.
Lucy loved learning, but she loved fairness more.


She went to college at a time when that alone made a statement. Then she went and won a national tennis championship, not because she was trying to make history, but because she liked to compete and she was good at it. First Black woman to do that. No speeches. No victory lap. Just excellence.


Later, at Howard University, Lucy started seeing something that bothered her. Black women students were being monitored, managed, and micromanaged—while Black men were being prepared for leadership.

Lucy didn’t raise her voice about it. She raised the standard.


She became the Dean of Women and pushed back on rules that treated grown women like children. She fought for privacy, dignity, and the right for Black women to become themselves without apology or supervision disguised as concern.


And when she saw young Black women needing each other, she helped start Alpha Kappa Alpha—not for prestige, but so they’d have sisterhood, scholarship, and somewhere solid to stand. Lucy didn’t perform rebellion.
She practiced alignment.


SCRIPTURE CONTEXT
“Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” — Romans 12:2


BEFORE YOU MOVE ON
Where have you learned to make yourself smaller just to keep the peace? Lucy reminds us that refusing to conform isn’t arrogance—it’s obedience to who God made you to be.


Some people don’t change the room by entering it.
They change it by refusing to play along.


We see you, Lucy Diggs Slowe — for standing firm when shrinking was expected.


Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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The Hymn Before the Headline

Posted in Black History Month, cancer, christmas, faith, food, God, inspiration, love, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Before it was debated,
Before it was dissected on timelines and talk shows, it was a hymn.

Originally titled
Lift Every Voice and Sing (The Negro National Hymn)

Hymn.

Not rebellion.  Not replacement.


Hymn.

Written in 1900 by James Weldon Johnson, and set to music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson, it was first sung by Black schoolchildren who were barely a generation removed from bondage.

And still they sang.

Psalm 98 says, “Sing unto the Lord a new song.”

Our ancestors did.

They sang through Jim Crow.
They sang through separate water fountains.
They sang when hoses knocked bodies down and dogs were turned loose.
They sang when grief had no courtroom relief.

This hymn was not written to divide a nation.
It was written to steady a people.

When it shows up on a Super Bowl stage,
that is not intrusion.
That is history breathing.

A hymn is not about replacing anything.
It is about remembering.

Black History Month is not about exclusion.
It is about acknowledgment.

And acknowledgment is not an attack.
It is truth standing upright.

So when we lift every voice,
we are not asking permission.

We are honoring inheritance.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us.
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us.

Some songs survive because they are catchy.
This one survived because it carried us.

To the children who first sang it.
To the elders who kept it in the pews.
To every voice that trembled but did not stop

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here..

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John Berry Meachum — The Man Who Took the School to the Water

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John Berry Meachum was born enslaved in 1789 and eventually brought to Missouri, a slave state that worked very hard to keep Black people uneducated. Because ignorant people are easier to control.
Meachum didn’t accept that.


Through years of labor, he bought his freedom. And once free, he did what a lot of free folks might not have dared to do — he started teaching Black children to read. Not secretly. Not halfway. He opened a school.


Then Missouri passed a law that said Black people could no longer be educated.
Now here’s where John Berry Meachum shows us the difference between rebellion and holy wisdom.
He didn’t shout at lawmakers.
He didn’t beg for exceptions.
He read the law.
And he noticed something important: the law applied on land.


So Meachum bought a boat, anchored it in the Missouri River, and moved the school onto the water.
No land.
No violation.
No stopping the lessons.


Children,  enslaved and free,  climbed onto that boat and learned to read, write, and think for themselves. The school became known as the Floating Freedom School, and it floated right outside the reach of unjust power.


John Berry Meachum didn’t break the law.
He outgrew it.


He understood that sometimes obedience to God requires creativity — and that wisdom can be just as disruptive as protest.
“We must obey God rather than men.” — Acts 5:29

In 1846, he published his pamphlet “An Address to All the Colored Citizens of the United States” emphasizing education and self-respect.

His floating school survived after his death until around 1860. Continuing under the direction of one of his former students

Where have you been told “you can’t” — not because it’s wrong, but because it’s inconvenient for those in power?

John Berry Meachum reminds us that sometimes the door isn’t locked. It’s just in the wrong place.

Wisdom doesn’t always fight the system head-on.
Sometimes it floats right past it.


We see you, John Berry Meachum.  Teaching freedom when the law said no.


Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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Fannie Lou Hamer: She Was Sick and Tired

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Fannie Lou Hamer did not come to the movement polished, protected, or prepared.

She came poor.
She came uneducated by the world’s standards.
She came with a body already worn down by hard labor and injustice.

And still — she came.

Born in rural Mississippi in 1917, the youngest of twenty children, Fannie Lou Hamer spent her life working land she did not own, under a system designed to keep her dependent, invisible, and quiet. She began picking cotton as a child. Not for character. For survival.

When she attempted to register to vote in 1962 — after attending a voter education meeting — she failed the literacy test that was never meant to be passed. For that attempt alone, she was fired from the plantation where she had lived and worked for nearly two decades. Her family was later threatened at gunpoint for her decision to try again.

All for trying to do what should have been ordinary.

In 1963, while jailed in Winona, Mississippi, law enforcement ordered inmates to beat her. She was left with permanent injuries, chronic pain, and internal damage that followed her for the rest of her life.

She was not famous when she began.
She was not invited.
She was not protected.

But she was awake.

She helped form the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party because the state’s official party was all white — and called America to account for segregation hiding inside democracy itself. At the 1964 Democratic National Convention, she testified on national television about voter suppression and racial violence so plainly that the President of the United States attempted to interrupt the broadcast.

It didn’t work.

“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Those words didn’t come from anger alone.
They came from truth-telling — the kind that costs something.

She refused token representation. She rejected symbolic seats. She demanded full dignity, not crumbs dressed up as compromise.

And when the nation listened, it did not immediately change.

She was heard, but not always heeded.
She was visible, but rarely protected.
She was victorious without reward.

Still, she kept going — organizing, feeding families, helping build Freedom Farms so people could eat, vote, and live with dignity. Her fight was never only about ballots. It was about daily bread.

“Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.” — Amos 5:24

She didn’t control the stream.
She didn’t shape the river.

She stood in it anyway.

Faith sometimes looks like prayer.
Sometimes it looks like protest.
And sometimes it looks like telling the truth even when your body is already tired.

If you have ever spoken up and paid a price,
felt worn down by doing the right thing,
told the truth without being spared the consequences,
or wondered if faithfulness was worth the cost —

Fannie Lou Hamer stands with you.

She reminds us that God often chooses voices the world underestimates — and uses them to shake foundations.

We see you, Fannie.
We honor your truth.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.


Love, Chelle