I usually don’t react and write about current racial issues. Simply because they will be emotionally filled and most times I can’t get my words right enough to speak on events we’re still experiencing in 2017…. and how white people still say that racism isn’t alive. I do, however, repost articles that I read on
Uncovering Secrets There was a piece of paper folded in half four times. It was white with dingy edges smeared with finger prints. I don’t know why I kept it. Why I placed it in a drawer of my bureau. Why, when I initially opened it, I only saw the list of methadone clinics and
I read the first page of the autopsy report and was not at all surprised. However, I asked questions out loud to no one in particular or perhaps to my imagined medical examiner. “So let me get this straight. You mean to tell me my father didn’t mean to kill himself? It was an accident?
I ate the grey chalky substance in the holes of the sheet rocked walls when the fridge echoed emptiness at the release of the rubber molding that held it shut. I stood on the back portion of the couch that was situated in the living room to the left of giant-sized windows that faced the back
This is where it all began. This hospital. The infamous intersection that erased my past and led me to what is now known as foster care. Where they probed us. Touched us. Held us down to check our fevers through anal thermometers. Where my brothers fought for a chocolate chip cookie that fell to the