RADIO Roxanne

10/19/2025

10/18/2025

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10/18/2025

Ever met a woman who ran toward the cannon fire instead of away from it?

That was Juana Ramírez, “La Avanzadora.” Born in 1790 in Venezuela, she didn’t wait for permission to be brave. When the fight for independence broke out, she organized and led an all-female artillery unit, a line of women loading, firing, and advancing while soldiers twice their size hesitated.

They called her La Avanzadora, The Advancer—because in the chaos of battle, when everyone else ducked, she moved forward. Juana wasn’t fighting for glory or medals; she was fighting for a future where her people could breathe free, where daughters could inherit courage instead of silence.

History often forgets women like her. But every time a woman speaks truth with calm strength, or stands her ground when the world tells her to step aside, Juana’s spirit advances again.

10/18/2025

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If 100 Shots was 60’s Blues

10/18/2025

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Watch the Official Performance Video for Butcher Brown’s “Ibiza," filmed Live from the High Point Barbershop. From the album, Letters From The Atlantic, out ...

10/18/2025

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Watch the Official Performance Video for Butcher Brown’s "Hold You," filmed Live from the High Point Barbershop. From the album, 'Letters From The Atlantic,'...

10/18/2025

10/17/2025

Angela Davis once refused to cut her afro in jail — even when guards threatened to shave it by force — because she said her hair was part of the revolution.
It was 1971. She was in solitary confinement, awaiting trial for charges that could send her to the gas chamber. The guards ordered her to “look respectable” for court. They said her hair was “too political.” Davis looked them in the eye and said, “This is how I was arrested. This is how I’ll stand before your court.”
That moment — unseen by cameras, buried in paperwork — captured everything about who she was. Her hair wasn’t vanity. It was defiance. The afro had become a symbol of Black pride, and forcing her to change it meant erasing her identity. She told friends later, “They could take my freedom, but not my image.”
Few knew that Davis was quietly waging another battle inside her cell — a hunger strike. She refused prison food for days until officials agreed to give her books. When she finally got them, she devoured philosophy, political theory, and poetry. She wrote letters to students and strangers, turning her jail cell into a classroom. “I taught the only class I ever gave where the students never walked out,” she joked years later.
Outside those walls, her afro — the same one she’d refused to cut — appeared on posters, murals, and T-shirts across the world. It became a global emblem of resistance, worn by people who had never heard her voice but knew what she stood for.
When she was acquitted in 1972, reporters asked if she’d go back to teaching. She smiled slightly and said, “I never stopped.”
The cameras caught a freed woman walking out with the same halo of hair that guards once threatened to erase. What they didn’t capture was the quiet truth: Angela Davis had turned her body into her manifesto — and her silence into a syllabus on freedom.