Roots of the Sky Chapter One: The Lost Voice Zora had never been one to hold back her opinions. She spoke her mind, often too loudly, too quickly. It had always gotten her into trouble, but today was different. Today, she was suspended. It started with a simple question: “What does Black History Month mean to you?” The class had been quiet when her teacher asked, his voice heavy with the weight of a lesson Zora didn’t quite feel connected to. They had been discussing famous figures—Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr.—as though they were stories in a book. But to Zora, they weren’t just stories. They were her ancestors, her history, her bloodline. She couldn’t sit there and listen to the same names repeated over and over. When the teacher asked for someone to speak up, Zora had raised her hand. But not to recite the same facts everyone else was saying. No, she had something different to say. “It’s not enough to just talk about Black history,” Zora said, her voice breaking the silence in the room. “We need to live it. We need to be it. The people who made history didn’t just wait for their moment to come, they created it. We can’t let our stories just sit in textbooks. We have to keep writing them.” The room had gone still. Her classmates shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. The teacher, however, frowned, his eyes narrowing. “That’s enough, Zora,” he said, his tone sharp. “This is a history lesson, not a political debate.” But Zora couldn’t stop. “You don’t get it,” she said, standing up now. “You think history is something that happened a long time ago, but it’s happening now. It’s happening every time someone is silenced or told they don’t belong.” Her voice had cracked, the weight of the words settling in her chest. But her anger wasn’t something she could easily hold back. It burned too brightly. Her teacher had sent her to the principal’s office. She was suspended for the rest of the day. As Zora walked home, she felt like the walls were closing in on her. She was angry, confused. Was it really so wrong to speak out? Didn’t the people who had shaped Black history do exactly that? Wasn’t it her responsibility to make sure those stories were still alive? When Zora arrived home, her mother, who was always busy, seemed tired and distracted. But she noticed the look on Zora’s face. “What happened, baby?” she asked gently. Zora told her everything, from the question to her suspension. Her mother listened without interruption, nodding quietly. “I’m proud of you,” her mother finally said. “But I think it’s time you learned a little more about where you come from. Your history didn’t end with Dr. King. Your roots go deep, Zora, deeper than you can even imagine. I think it’s time for you to visit your grandmother in Selma.” Zora hadn’t been to Selma in years. Her grandmother, a pillar of strength and wisdom, was the kind of woman who had lived through the Civil Rights Movement. She was a living, breathing connection to history, a part of it. Maybe being with her would give Zora the perspective she so desperately needed. --- Chapter Two: The Bridge Zora arrived in Selma the next day. The house was quiet, nestled in the quiet streets of the city where history had unfolded in ways Zora had only seen in old black-and-white photos. Her grandmother greeted her with a hug that felt like being wrapped in a warm quilt. “You’ve grown, child. It’s good to see you.” Over dinner that night, Zora asked her grandmother about the past. She wanted to know everything—the marches, the protests, the arrests. She wanted to understand how the people in the photographs had felt when they stood up for what they believed in. Grandmother sat back in her chair, her eyes distant for a moment as though she was reliving those moments. “When we marched across that bridge,” she said softly, “we weren’t just marching for ourselves. We were marching for our children, our grandchildren, our future. We were demanding a world where people like you wouldn’t have to fight for the right to be heard.” Zora’s heart swelled. She couldn’t imagine walking for miles, fighting for something she hadn’t even understood until now. She had thought the struggle was over, that her life was already a reflection of that fight. But now, it felt like there was so much more to it. The fight wasn’t over—it was just beginning. That night, after they talked, Zora took out her notebook. She had started writing poems before, but they always felt like a way to let out her frustration. This time, though, she wrote with purpose, remembering her grandmother’s words. The next day, her grandmother took Zora on a tour of Selma—showing her the Edmund Pettus Bridge, the place where Bloody Sunday had unfolded. Zora felt something in her heart stir. The bridge was no longer just a piece of metal and concrete; it was a symbol, a monument to the courage of people who had sacrificed everything for a better future. --- Chapter Three: The March Forward Zora spent the next few days with her grandmother, listening to stories of the Civil Rights Movement. But she also learned about the struggles that continued today—about the libraries that were being closed down, about the ongoing fight for education, for opportunity. One afternoon, Zora learned that the local library, which held archives of the Civil Rights Movement and important documents about Black history, was set to close. The community was in an uproar, but no one seemed to be listening. That’s when Zora knew what she had to do. With the encouragement of her grandmother, Zora organized a protest. She used social media, her poems, and her voice to rally the youth in the community. She made them understand that history was not something to be erased or forgotten. They couldn’t let the doors to their history close. The day of the protest, Zora stood at the front of a crowd of young people, holding a sign that read, “Our History Can’t Be Silenced.” It was a small protest, but it was powerful. The mayor, impressed by the turnout and the strength of the students’ message, agreed to meet with them and discuss the library’s future. Zora’s heart raced with pride. This was the moment she had been waiting for—this was her history, her legacy, her voice.