Do our Black lives matter?
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.
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…
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