It started with a story. 

A story that would be passed down and washed upon society's shores

300 years after his existence.

William Lynch, a storyteller.

The storyteller.

Mr. Lynch stood before fellow slaveholders

formulating the preconcieved idea of what it meant to be black. 

Weave-pattin, big booty, gum smakin, big bamboo earing wearin, loud talkin black women.

This is what he created. 

This is black.

This is me.

This is beautiful.

But this isn't me!

You see my black is beautiful.

They try to tell me otherwise.

The revolution will not be televised. 

My black is full of Maya Angelou's commandmets. 

I was born again.

The sun's radiat beams warm my flesh.

It was love.

It was me. 

Miss Angelou told me to embrace my culture and scolded me to rise.

Rise and break from Lynch's soul crushig, dark, and bitter story.

"I am the dream and the hope of the slave." 

I was Lynch's coffee.

Too bitter.

Too strong.

Too black.

I seared his tounge. 

The bitterness of my content made him spit me out

and forced him to add creamer. 

Light, sweet tasting vailla latte.

Mmmmm just white.

I mean just right.

You see my black is strong

but they tried to tell me otherwise 

the revolutio will not be televised.