I find wholeness in the depth of my archive, knowing there is no replacement for time. To be grounded and Black is to share a fruitful harvest. Displacement is a generational wound. There is power in being grounded over generations; we are being called home, being called to remember. Ephemera collected, stories shared—I romanticize the era before integration. I trace my roots not to Africa, but to Mount Vernon Avenue in Columbus, where my home was most vibrant. Folks may have been poor but they were spiritually rich, sharing a responsibility of place. I am offered a generational torch, a North Star. To run away is to break the ladder, to sever a circle of care. Individualism is self-destruction. Black placelessness is an affliction—a bastardization and abandonment of the ancestral archive. Black wealth lies in land-based relationships, nurtured through the care of our ancestral lands. The archives urgently call us to act, to return home. Black excellence is a fallacy; community care is the vehicle for stabilization. Domination is a soulless practice. Barter, borrow, be… Have your art and your sport, create and compete, but don’t leave. I beg you to stay. A new day is coming. We need you in place.