The Little Piece of Me that You Cannot Have

My problem with a white woman telling my story as if it were her own is there is no way she could know. Growing up black in America is a shared experience of more than our dark skin and kinky curls. It cannot be put on like a mask.  I cannot explain to you anecdotally what it is to be told from the time of hearing that you are less than another person of whiter skin and silkier hair. I cannot relate to you the physical sting of the word “nigger”. It is visceral. It bites. It is spat at…

External/Internal Rachel Dolezel

I think we all know the certain recently (relatively) tightly curled lady of America today this pertains. I know my own struggles. I will forever share my children’s struggle. But that is not owning another’s struggle. It is what is my struggle as a father of little soldiers in the trenches. I demand no empathy.  My place is this. I am in a place of strength and depth to handle a great many minor indignities. On my own behalf. On the behalf of those incalculably, intrinsically and inseparably mine to bear I make no such compromises. A choice indistinguishable from…

I Know, I Know, A Change Gone Come

Yeah, right. Bullshit. Yesterday, I should in what I could call a small group of beautifully varied people voicing concern over police brutality as it has been violently dropped upon my doorstep. I watched each of them speak, tell their tales of hope and of horror. I yelled. A young man cried. An older woman’s voice broke as she spoke. A girl asked for her humanity. Then a man began to speak of how we move out of this sorry state that we find ourselves in still, in this country that has made so many broken promises, that if they…