We all carry something.
Some of us hide it well.
Some of us drag it loudly behind us.
Some of us pretend our hands are empty.
I carry a lifetime of racial trauma.
Not always visible.
But weighted.
Inherited.
Accumulated in small daily increments.
The cart came to me as truth.
A shopping cart, the most ordinary American vehicle , has become the right container for what I have been pushing for decades. Plastic newspaper sleeves. Bad headlines. Disposable language. Woven into structure.
I refuse to let bad news be the only narrative.
So I spray the cart gold.
I add a black racing stripe, velocity, lineage, survival.
I attach a bell.
Joyful resistance is not softness.
It is decision.
It is choosing to move forward without letting the weight define the direction.
It is turning debris into design.
It is building beauty out of what tried to diminish you.