The dreams of Jaime Escalante and Cesar Chavez,
I'm living it,
The seeds planted by men of colors,
White, black, brown, yellow, red,
Rising up through the concrete of this urban jungle,
Like Tupac's rose, struggling to breach the surface,
Gasping for breath
Throat dry, thirsty,
I don't want the taste of beer,
I want the pure waters of Yosemite's falls
to rejuvenate my soul.
I want to speak the words of the Reverend King,
Resound the Shakespearean chorus like bells at noon,
And gently convey the mellow comfort of Fred Rogers
And let them all know that "they," "them," "we," "you" are special, just the way you are.
This is just the struggle.
But we will rise. You will rise.
The roses that rise from concrete stand through storms,
Weather the thunder,
And bloom like a supernova sunflower,
bright and unavoidable.