The story this piece tells a story that begins deep within our history.  "Ancient flows of dark and light"...the color of skin.  Race, some say is, "a made up label used to define and separate us". Generations of women begin to rise up from the roots that have entangled them, "Out of the huts of history's shame, I rise.  Up from a past that's rooted in pain, I rise".  As the next generation of mothers pray and hope for the more beautiful world that their hearts know is possible, they continue to dream for their children.  "Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll Rise". The future rises up the tree, the next generation declaring, "I rise, I rise, I rise", no longer defined by skin.  (Excerpts from the poem "Still I rise" by Maya Angelou.