3rd, May 2025
- Black Lawyer
- May 3
- 2 min read
The Blueprint They Forgot
Filed under: Sacred Truths
Dearest Diary,
Today, I stood in a courtroom where history was once again placed on trial —disguised as a custody dispute.
The pleadings listed visitation schedules, primary residence, joint decision-making authority.Neat little boxes.Tidy little lies.
But Diary, beneath the affidavits and mediation proposals, we all knew what it was:a battle for the blueprint.
She sat across from him —a Black woman whose presence made the walls seem smaller.Luminous, unbending, terrifying in her calm.
He sat smirking, pale fingers drumming against his counsel table.A man intoxicated by the comfort of systems built to praise his mediocrity.
They had loved once — or something like it.Long enough to create brown-skinned miracles, children whose laughter sounded like drumbeats in a cathedral.
But love, Diary, is often no match for fear.
And fear had taught him something uglier than absence.It had taught him that her magic must be managed, not embraced.Coveted, not honored.
He wanted custody.Not of the children’s hearts.But of the narrative.
He wanted to recast their rhythm into something palatable.He wanted their brilliance muted, renamed, retold —their ancestry neatly tucked behind school pick-up lines and suburban sports leagues.
When the evidence came, it came brutally:
The social media posts mocking their hair.
The text messages lamenting their "difficult attitudes."
The whispered complaints that they were "too bold," "too sensitive," "too much to manage."
Diary, he did not want them.He wanted to shrink them.
And when cross-examined, he smiled and shrugged:
"Children adapt," he said, as if adaptation had not been the original curse laid upon their bloodline.
But today, the court did not look away.
Today, the judge — weathered and grey but momentarily illuminated by something older than law —recognized the theft mid-act.
Custody awarded.Primary to the mother.Her voice, her history, her magic, woven directly into the final order.
It will not undo the centuries.It will not cauterize every wound.
But it will carve one more line of survival into the endless archive:
They love the way we shine, but fear the way we speak.They want the rhythm, but not the revolution.They want the children, but not the kingdom.
And still we rise.Still we speak.Still we build thrones they cannot claim.
Poised. Petty. Permanently The Blueprint.
Disclaimer:All cases, names, and proceedings in this entry are fictionalized for satirical and emotional purposes. The spirit, however, is devastatingly real.
Tag someone who refuses to be rewritten.
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