"Independence from WHO?"

(A Poem by Aaron K. Braxton)

So here we are again.

Fireworks, red stripes, blue skies.

America waving flags like amnesia ain't a crime.

They call it Independence Day.

But I gotta ask…

Independence from WHO?

'Cause this ain’t our holiday.

While the colonists were throwing tea into harbors,

writing letters with quills and rebellion,

talking 'bout liberty and tyranny…

My ancestors?

Were property.

We weren’t in the room.

We weren’t in the footnotes.

Hell, we weren’t even seen as human.

And that, my friends,

is cognitive dissonance in full colonial color.

That's when you scream “all men are created equal,”

while you’ve got Black folks chained to your porch

whistling songs they weren't allowed to own.

See, THEY weren’t conflicted.

THEY were comfortable.

Because we weren’t “men” to them,

we were capital.

Cargo.

Shadowed silhouettes in a system

they called “freedom.”

Intolerance will say, “Get over it.

We’re all Americans now.”

But how do you “get over” a lie that’s still being told

in textbooks, in courtrooms, in voting booths?

You want us to celebrate?

With what?

A flag? A hot dog? A sparkle in the sky?

When the spark that lit this nation

never even reached our skin?

Let me paint a picture:

If Germany had gained its freedom

While still massacring its Jews,

would anyone expect those survivors

to throw a bbq party 250 years later?

HELL NO!

They could still love Germany.

Still honor its growth.

But that day? That day ain’t for them.

Now here’s the difference:

Germany atoned.

They teach.

They face the mirror.

America?

It backpedals in red, white, and denial.

It silences. Sanitizes. Shrugs, and Erases.

But let’s not forget:

The first to die for America’s “freedom” was a Black man…

Crispus Attucks.

Not a citizen. Just a “freeman.”

A name lost in the hypocrisy,

while Paul Revere gets parades.

We fought in the revolution.

Unarmed. Unwelcomed.

Given promises of freedom

that evaporated when the smoke cleared.

Some of us even fought for the British…

'Cause they gave us what the colonists wouldn't:

A deal.

Fight for us, gain your freedom.

And guess what?

They kept their word.

So when you fire off your fireworks

this Fourth of July,

ask yourself:

Who was left out of the Declaration?

Whose bones built this land,

only to be buried under the lie?

This ain't about hate.

It’s about truth.

It’s about honoring African ancestors

who gave America its soul

and got silence in return.

So “No!

this ain’t our holiday.

But it is our moment.

To Speak.

To Remember.

To continue Rising.

Because until equity isn’t conditional,

and until amends become more than a metaphor.

and and reparations more than rhetoric,

America’s “independence,” will always remain...

…incomplete.

Aaron K. Braxton is a powerhouse, award-winning multi-hyphenate: writer, screenwriter, playwright, and author, whose bold, genre-bending work cuts across stage, screen, and page with unapologetic clarity and purpose. Known for crafting emotionally charged, deeply resonant narratives that challenge convention and highlight the stories of underrepresented voices, Braxton doesn’t just write stories, he builds worlds that entertain, enlighten, and disrupt. Explore the full scope of his work at www.aaronkbraxton.com.