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Trippin on a yacht 🛥️😛🌸
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On Point, Unbothered. #20 #bday
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It is our collective duty to store history as it’s being made everyday as we make the decision to use our right of "choice". I often times say to myself, it is only right if I use my autonomy because of my ancestors who couldn’t and for those that did for me to get here. Narrative and collective power in woven through the arts and within this series of photographs, I wanted to bring attention to the color red.

Red has single-handedly been demonized in white America but the opposite in black Americana. Red is the color they told us to fear,
but we always knew it was sacred.

Red is the blood that built empires.
The thread woven through the Pan-African flag; honoring those we lost, and those who loved us into survival.
It’s the cloth worn by La Madama, spirit worker and protector, who reminds us that labor and love have always lived side by side.

Red is the spice in our kitchens—cayenne, paprika, cinnamon—healing us rapidly in ways medicine never could.

It’s Hoodoo first Sundays, Vodou altars, the blood of Jesus spoken over doorways, whispered into prayers by grandmothers who never called it magic—but knew it was.

We trusted in it. It’s what pulses through us in the sanctuary and altar we call our body, our temple. 

In my photo, three Black women sit wrapped in red.
They are not just radiant and intertwined by siblinghood, they are witness, memory, and prophecy.
They are what happens when softness meets survival.

Red has been used to criminalize us, to mark us as danger.
But we wear it as armor, as ritual, as joy.
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