MOSES: HARRIET TUBMAN The CONDUCTOR 100%FACTS

Описание: Lil’ MOSES
MOSES: HARRIET TUBMAN The CONDUCTOR

1•QUIET
2•DIRTY HARRIET
3•ILLITERATE?
4•WHO SAID I AINT REAL
5•MAKE YOU THINK
6•FREE
7•NO PAD, NO PEN
8•700 SOULS
9•HARRIET TUBMAN
10•CODE TALKING
11•VALOR (BIG HONOR)
12•MAKE YOU THINK TOO!
13•BLOODLINES (BONUS)
14•FREEDOM RUN
15•NAT TURNER (THE LEGEND)
16•OUTRO

Monique first heard the name Moses before she learned how to spell her own.

It happened at a family party in East New York, the kind where the living room becomes a whole borough—folding chairs, aluminum trays, plastic cups sweating on the windowsill, somebody’s uncle posted by the speaker like it was a security detail. The grown folks talked in layers—laughter under gossip under warnings—while the kids moved like a little weather system: loud, fast, and always turning toward trouble.

Monique wasn’t the oldest cousin. She wasn’t even close. But the older ones still looked at her when decisions had to be made. Where we going? Who’s telling? Who’s watching the little ones? Which auntie is in a good mood and which one is not to be played with today?

Monique didn’t command with yelling. She commanded with certainty.

“Everybody line up,” she said once, palms on her hips like a person who’d been paying rent for years. “We’re doing a parade.”

“A parade for what?” her cousin Tiana asked, already suspicious.

“For us,” Monique said, like that was obviously the point.

And just like that, ten kids fell in behind her. They paraded from kitchen to hallway to living room, stepping high like they had somewhere important to be. Monique led them with a plastic spoon like it was a baton, chin up, shoulders square, eyes scanning the room the way grown folks did when they knew something could pop off at any moment.

The aunties noticed.

“That little girl always got a plan,” one said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“She keep them in line better than their parents,” another replied.

Her grandmother watched from her chair near the window, eyes bright, smiling like she was seeing something old and familiar. Not the child exactly—the spirit.

“Look at her,” Grandma said softly. “She be moving like Harriet.”

The room calmed for a second, like somebody had turned the volume down.

“Harriet who?” one cousin whispered.

“Tubman,” Monique answered before anybody else could. She didn’t know the story yet, not fully. But she knew the name had weight.

Her mother leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You know what you is?” she said. “You is Moses.”
Monique frowned. “I’m Monique.”

“Monique to the world,” her auntie laughed. “Moses to us.”

And it stuck. Not because of the Bible—not the staff, not the sea, not the tablets. In their mouths, Moses meant something else: a kid who didn’t wait to be chosen; a kid who chose herself. Somebody who pulled people forward, not to show off, but to make sure everybody got there.

From then on, the nickname followed her through every gathering like a second shadow.

“Moses, go get your cousins from under that table.”

“Moses, help Nana with them plates.”

“Moses, don’t let them little ones go outside—cars fly down this block.”

And every time, Monique moved. She was small, but she carried responsibility the way some people carry jewelry—like it belonged on them.

⸻

She found Harriet Tubman on purpose years later.

It was fourth grade and the school library smelled like dust and pencil shavings. Monique was supposed to pick a book for a report—any book, Ms. Green said, something you can finish in two weeks. Most kids grabbed whatever had dragons or dogs. Monique drifted to the biography section because her mother always said, If you want to know what you can be, study who survived being told they couldn’t.

She pulled a book with Harriet’s face on the cover—stern eyes, scarf wrapped tight, a look that didn’t ask for permission. Monique sat on the carpet between shelves and started reading like she was eating, like she hadn’t had a meal all day.

Harriet wasn’t a statue in the book. Harriet was a runner. Harriet was strategy. Harriet was cold nights and hunger and fearless math—counting steps, counting risks, counting who was behind her. Harriet was the kind of leader Monique recognized immediately: not loud for attention, loud for life.

When Monique came home, she set the book down on the kitchen table like an offering.

“I want to be her,” she told her mother.

Her mother didn’t laugh. Didn’t correct her. Just nodded like she understood exactly what her daughter meant.

“You already is,” she said. “That’s why we called you Moses.”

From then on, Harriet wasn’t just history. Harriet was family.

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