Anthem of the Unchosen: Turn II (Remastered)

[echos from the past]
…forgotten…

[Verse 6 – The Stonewall and the Shame]
Andrew Jackson—
Old Hickory, they called him.
As if splinters made him sacred.
As if the Trail of Tears
was a bedtime story.

You weren’t a patriarch.
You were a plague
with a desk job in the White House.
A war criminal
in democracy’s costume.

And Stonewall Jackson—
another folk hero
stitched from the same cloth,
soaked in the same blood.
They sing about strategy,
but not the slaughter.
Not the sulfur.
Not the slaves who saw no glory
in your cannon fire.

You both wanted legacy.
You got it—
in bronze lies
and history books
that flinch.

And speaking of walls—
there was one that mattered:

Stonewall. Nineteen sixty-nine.
Where queens threw bricks,
not bouquets.
Where Black and brown trans women
fought back in heels
and holy rage.

The first Pride?
It wasn’t a rainbow.
It was a riot.

And history?
It turned—
in sequins, sweat,
and sacred defiance.

That wall didn’t silence.
It sang.
It rose.

[Verse 7 – Gospel of the Discarded]
This is for those
not made in the image they printed.

The queer.
The native.
The brown child
with a too-loud laugh
and a too-wild name.

The girl who learned shame
in the mirror.
The boy who learned silence
in the classroom.
The nonbinary sibling
who couldn’t find a pronoun
in your prayer books.

The men who never made it home
because they were already at war
with themselves.

You called us lost.
But we?
We’ve been taking roll.

Every missionary.
Every general.
Every smiling signature
that erased a grandmother’s language.

Every border
drawn through a cradle.
Every textbook
that skipped our page.

We are still here.
Still sacred.
Still loud.

We were never forgotten.
You just covered your ears.

[Verse 8 – Betrayal in Broad Daylight]
You got a lot of nerve
calling me a deserter—
when your ancestors
blew mine’s brains out
as he bent his back
to build your house.

You pledge to a nation
that sold us eviction notices
wrapped in red, white, and betrayal.

Tulsa, nineteen twenty-one.
Black Wall Street burned—
not because we failed,
but because we thrived.

Osage County.
Where they married the daughters
just to poison their veins.
Murder wasn’t madness—
it was paperwork.

America the beautiful
was forged
in forged documents.

The census is a census of ghosts.
The deeds are written in theft.
The anthem sings
in keys of denial.

You call us deserters.
We say:
check your deed history.
We were never trespassing.
You just drew the map
over our bones.

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[echos from the past] …forgotten… [Verse 6 – The Stonewall and the Shame] Andrew Jackson— Old Hickory, they called him. As if splinters made him sacred. As if the Trail of Tears was a bedtime story. You weren’t a patriarch. You were a plague with a desk job in the White House. A war criminal in democracy’s costume. And Stonewall Jackson— another folk hero stitched from the same cloth, soaked in the same blood. They sing about strategy, but not the slaughter. Not the sulfur. Not the slaves who saw no glory in your cannon fire. You both wanted legacy. You got it— in bronze lies and history books that flinch. And speaking of walls— there was one that mattered: Stonewall. Nineteen sixty-nine. Where queens threw bricks, not bouquets. Where Black and brown trans women fought back in heels and holy rage. The first Pride? It wasn’t a rainbow. It was a riot. And history? It turned— in sequins, sweat, and sacred defiance. That wall didn’t silence. It sang. It rose. [Verse 7 – Gospel of the Discarded] This is for those not made in the image they printed. The queer. The native. The brown child with a too-loud laugh and a too-wild name. The girl who learned shame in the mirror. The boy who learned silence in the classroom. The nonbinary sibling who couldn’t find a pronoun in your prayer books. The men who never made it home because they were already at war with themselves. You called us lost. But we? We’ve been taking roll. Every missionary. Every general. Every smiling signature that erased a grandmother’s language. Every border drawn through a cradle. Every textbook that skipped our page. We are still here. Still sacred. Still loud. We were never forgotten. You just covered your ears. [Verse 8 – Betrayal in Broad Daylight] You got a lot of nerve calling me a deserter— when your ancestors blew mine’s brains out as he bent his back to build your house. You pledge to a nation that sold us eviction notices wrapped in red, white, and betrayal. Tulsa, nineteen twenty-one. Black Wall Street burned— not because we failed, but because we thrived. Osage County. Where they married the daughters just to poison their veins. Murder wasn’t madness— it was paperwork. America the beautiful was forged in forged documents. The census is a census of ghosts. The deeds are written in theft. The anthem sings in keys of denial. You call us deserters. We say: check your deed history. We were never trespassing. You just drew the map over our bones.

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