The end of the month is apparently the end of my existence. The kente cloths will go back into the closet. Performers of Negro spirituals will go back to the cultural graveyard And I I am stripped of my significance because my month is over. Why can’t my month be August. It has 31 days and it’s hot. It’s also black as in Black August. August was the month that the first enslaved Africans arrived on these shores. Haiti started its war of liberation in August. Nat Turner personified bravery in August. Fred Hampton, Sr. was born in August. Jonathan Jackson was killed in August. George Jackson was killed in August. August is holy to me. Why can’t my month be August? I know I’m an orphan but my father, Carter G. Woodson still exists inside of me. And I know work has been done to increase my time alive from one week to a month but still, not enough respect is being shown me. And that is why I keep getting all up in your face cause you don’t know enough about me. You couldn’t possibly know everything about me. Every day, I am being remade, re-formed into something new but you could know more than you do. But I will say something about that insult known as the shortest month. One of the greatest crimes ever committed occurred during that month. A crime that, like me, will reverberate throughout time.