Never Have We Felt Welcome in This Stolen House

Do our Black lives matter?

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

I look at my children often and wonder if this may be the last time I see them.

If I deviate from my normal routine, a side trip for bread, an after work pint, will I make it home afterwards?

There was a time when I lived without a heightened sense of awareness. Hands in pockets, earbuds blasting, careless.

At ease.

Now I survive on random spurts of adrenaline. Scrutinizing every white male that ventures close.

Eyeballing the local black and whites that come through my neighborhood.

One can’t imagine how tiresome this is, this sleepless vigilance. Depression and mental fatigue.

My parents used to live this way.

Pops would relay tales of growing up amongst the lawless, in jukes and brothels. Despite the nostalgic tone of his voice we both knew that without freebies and bribes to the white sheriff, he could have easily been counted amongst the…

View original post 897 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s