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The Things I Didn’t Throw Away

Posted in cancer, faith, God, inspiration, love, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment

All my life, I’ve collected broken things.

Toys missing pieces.
Tools that didn’t quite work right anymore.
People… especially people.

Not because I didn’t notice what was wrong.
But because I could still see what was there.

I think my favorite rescue was a Christmas ornament—
a little elf on skis… missing one leg.

He couldn’t glide like he was made to.
Couldn’t balance like the others on the tree.
But I kept him anyway.

Hung him where he could still be seen.

Then there was that little robot suncatcher.
The one that doesn’t dance anymore
because his color panel is worn down.

He just… stands there now.
Still catching light, just differently.

And just this week, I stood in a nursery
while someone said, “Don’t buy those.
They’ll only last a week.”

Tulips on the clearance rack.
Already on their way out.
And I thought, a week of beauty is still beauty.


So I bought what I could afford.
Not to save them forever…
just to enjoy them while they’re here.

I’ve never been drawn to perfect things.
Perfect things don’t need you.

But worn things? They need a little time.
A little patience. A little belief that they’re not finished yet.

And somewhere along the way, I decided this:
Just because something doesn’t work the way it used to… doesn’t mean it has no use at all.

Sometimes it just needs a different kind of care.
A slower hand.
A softer place to land.
Someone willing to stay a little longer than is convenient.

Because even the smallest things,
a crooked ornament,
a quiet presence,
a short-lived bloom,
can still add something to the world.

I’ve always believed there is a kind of invisible ledger… a quiet tally being kept.
Not of perfection. Not of productivity.

But of smiles.

And if something—anything—can still add to the smile quota of the world… then it still has value.

I’ve seen what happens when you don’t give up too quickly. I’ve ve seen people who were overlooked become the very ones who light up a room.

I’ve seen what love can do when it doesn’t rush off at the first sign of difficulty.

So if you’re feeling worn today…
set aside…
like maybe people have decided you’re too much or not enough,

Hear me:

You are not something to be discarded.
You are still capable of adding something good to this world. Even if it looks different than it used to. Even if it’s quieter than before.

Even if it’s just one smile.

And that counts more than you think.

Matthew 5:7
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”

I see you — still adding to the world in quiet ways that matter more than you know.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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They Grow While You’re Gone

Posted in cancer, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment


It’s 5:30 a.m.
I’m sipping my coffee, staring out the window into the darkness… somehow convinced I can see trouble in my garden from 100 feet away.

Don’t judge me… but I really considered stepping out there in my robe in 35 degrees to go check on my plant babies.

And somewhere between that first sip and the silence… I caught myself.

This isn’t about seeds.

This is about how easily my mind will grab hold of something—anything—and worry it to death.

Work stress that doesn’t clock out when I do.
Money questions that don’t always have quick answers.
A newborn I just prayed over in the hospital,
with whispers of concern about her ability to thrive.
Friends walking through the slow, sacred heartbreak of losing their parents…
and me carrying pieces of that with them.

All real things. All things that matter. All things experienced before.
And yet…

Look how quickly my heart starts hovering over them, like it’s my job to make sure everything turns out alright. Like if I think about it enough, check it enough, replay it enough…

I can help God along.

But I can’t.

Because even when I am doing the work of God, it is still God who is working.
I am not the outcome.
I am not the fixer.
I am not the one holding it all together.

I am just… hands in the soil.
Faithful to plant.
Faithful to water.
Faithful to show up.

But the growing?
The healing?
The sustaining?

That was never mine.

And if I’m not careful, I will let the weight of what I care about pull me out of the very places God is calling me to be present.

Sitting here with my coffee, trying to manage what He already has in His hands…
while He’s already prepared a seat for me somewhere else today.

There is a time to plant.
A time to water.
And then… a time to trust.
Not anxious trust.
Not hovering trust.
Real trust.

The kind that finishes the coffee,
gets dressed, and walks into the day
without carrying what God never assigned me to hold.

So I’m going where I’m supposed to be.
And I’m leaving the garden…
and everything it represents…
right where it is.

Because what God has already taken responsibility for does not need my worry added to it.

Even the good things don’t get to compete
with obedience.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1

Love, Chelle

DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Ketanji Brown Jackson -When preparation meets history.

Posted in Black History Month, God, inspiration, relationships, Uncategorized, women's history month, workTagged , , , , , Leave a comment


Some victories do not come bursting through the door.
They come with their shoes in their hand.
With grace under pressure.
With long study hours, quiet discipline, and the kind of strength that has learned how to hold itself still.


Ketanji Brown Jackson was born in Washington, D.C., in 1970 and raised in Miami.
She went to Harvard, graduating from college in 1992 and law school in 1996, serving along the way on the Harvard Law Review.
She clerked for Justice Stephen Breyer.
Worked as a public defender.
Served on the United States Sentencing Commission.
Became a federal judge in 2013.
Rose to the D.C. Circuit in 2021.


Nothing about her path says sudden.
Everything about it says prepared.
And maybe that is what makes this kind of history so holy.
Because on April 7, 2022, when the Senate confirmed her by a 53 to 47 vote, and on June 30, 2022, when she was sworn in as the 104th Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, becoming the first Black woman ever to serve there, it was not the beginning of her worth.
It was the public naming of what had already been true.
Brilliant.
Capable.
Measured.
Ready.


She became the first former federal public defender to sit on that Court.
Only the sixth woman in its history.


A Black woman in a seat this nation took far too long to imagine her in, though women like her have always been here carrying wisdom, justice, memory, and backbone in places that rarely gave them the microphone.


So no, her presence does not just say look what happened.
It says look what endured.
Look what kept going.
Look what kept studying.
Look what kept showing up polished and prepared while carrying the weight of being doubted before speaking.
For every door that opened late
For every gift that had to prove itself twice
For every girl taught to be excellent and careful at the same time
Her presence speaks.
Not just I made it.
But women like her have always been here.


Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
Joshua 1:9


And maybe that is the part I love most.
Not just that she made it to the room
but that God walked her all the way there.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us
Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Maya Angelou: When a Voice Becomes Courage

Posted in faith, God, inspiration, love, Uncategorized, women's history monthTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

She carried many lives before the world called her a poet.
Maya Angelou was born in St. Louis, April 4, 1928 as Marguerite Annie Johnson.   The name Maya was derived from her brother Bailey who just could not pronounce her name and would call her “My Sister” . It morphed into Maya which stuck. Angelou came from her first husband,  Enistasios Angelos, a Greek sailor. She adapted the surname slightly to Angelou when she began performing as a dancer and singer so it would sound more lyrical on stage.

She was  raised in the segregated South where dignity was often denied but never fully destroyed. Her childhood held both silence and survival, experiences that would later shape the voice the world came to know.
She refused to stay one thing. Angelou worked as a streetcar conductor, dancer, singer, journalist, and organizer long before the world recognized her literary voice. Her life moved through many stages, but each experience added depth to the perspective she would later bring to her writing.
Her voice extended beyond stages and books. During the Civil Rights Movement she worked alongside Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, helping organize, write, and advocate for justice. In 1964, after years living and working in Africa, Angelou returned to the United States at the invitation of Malcolm X to help him build a new civil rights organization focused on global Black unity.
Before that work could fully take shape, Malcolm X was assassinated.
The loss shook her deeply, but Angelou continued writing, speaking, and advocating for dignity and equality. Only a few years later the movement suffered another devastating loss when Dr. King was assassinated on April 4, Angelou’s own birthday.
Still she wrote.
In 1969, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings gave voice to stories the world rarely allowed Black women to tell out loud. Stories of trauma, identity, and the quiet power of rising again. Her words did not whisper. They lifted.
As she once wrote: “Still I rise.” Three simple words that carried generations.
But the voice the world came to love was not always easy for her to use.
As a young girl Maya Angelou endured a violent assault. When she spoke the truth about what had happened, the man responsible was later killed. In her young mind she believed her words had caused it.
So she stopped speaking.
For years she lived in silence, afraid that her voice carried too much power. It was a teacher, Mrs. Bertha Flowers, who slowly led her back to language through books, poetry, and the music of words.
The voice that would one day move a nation had to be reclaimed first.
In 1993 she stood at the inauguration of President Bill Clinton and read On the Pulse of Morning, becoming only the second poet in American history to deliver a poem at a presidential inauguration.
But her greatest legacy was simpler.
She gave language to survival.
Her life echoes a truth older than any poem:
“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.” — 2 Corinthians 4:8

I once saw Maya Angelou in concert. In a packed 1000 plus  seat  theater she sang “God Sent a Rainbow” without a microphone. The room fell completely silent as her voice carried to every corner. It felt as if the walls themselves were listening.
In that moment I understood something about courage. Voices like Maya Angelou’s do more than speak. They remind us that we are not meant to stay silent either. Somewhere in our own lives there is a truth waiting to be spoken, a kindness waiting to be offered, a step waiting to be taken.
And that is how Bread Crumbs are made.
Poet. Witness. Voice for generations.
We see you, Maya Angelou — for giving language to survival and wings to truth.
Bread Crumbs — from those still marching forward.
Steps From Our Sisters. Still here.
What step might be waiting for you?

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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

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

( 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.