Sometimes people ask me about the pieces I wear in my beret.
They look at it like it’s decoration.
It ain’t.
That’s a black onyx cabochon. Smooth top. No sparkle. No shit
The kind of stone that don’t beg to be seen—but somehow always is.
I got it from my grandmother.
She was born in 1910. Came up through the Roaring Twenties, back when folks say everything was loud and wild.
But where she was… it wasn’t about noise.
It was about survival.
Her and my grandfather built something down here in Alabama.
A juke joint. Music in the air, people coming through, life moving late into the night.
But that wasn’t the whole of it.
My grandfather made whiskey.
Bootlegged it. Kept it quiet, kept it moving.
My grandmother?
She ran the business. Sold the liquor. Managed the flow.
And on top of that… she sold dresses too. She didnt have a shop , she sold door to door taking orders for dresses and later shoes !
Didn’t ask for a lane.
Didn’t wait for a door to open.
She made one.
Years later, I came into that old place.
Time had settled heavy in there. Dust thick. Silence loud.
But the story was still sitting in the bones of it.
And tucked away inside… I found this piece.
Black onyx. Worn, but still solid.
Like it had been waiting on somebody to pick it back up.
So I did.
At first, it was just something I kept.
Then one day… I put it on.
And I understood.
They say black onyx protects you.
Keeps you steady. Takes the weight so you don’t have to carry all of it yourself.
Maybe that’s true.
Or maybe it’s this—
Every time I wear it, I remember exactly who I come from.
Two people who made something outta nothing.
Who moved smart in a world that wasn’t built for them.
Who didn’t fold.
So nah… this ain’t about style.
And it damn sure ain’t about what a man is “supposed” to wear.
This right here?
This is legacy.
This is my protection.
This is a reminder sitting right where the world can see it—
I come from folks who knew how to survive.