That night in Philadelphia, the bells rang out, and my heart leaped with a belief I had never held before. Yet when I saw white people rushing to dress while we were ordered to labor, dragging a single engine to the river, my surprise turned to a deep shame. They thought fire meant insurrection for them, but for us, it was only more work to be done by hands that knew no rest.

I ask you to remember that freedom is not just in the city streets where paintings hang and fish are sold. True freedom means you are not forced to fill an engine while others sleep through the din. Before nightfall, look at your own labor and ask if it serves a master or a mother’s child.