What I see when I get a moment to pause and make a little sense of the world
Playing Through
“Nothing is more unbearable, once one has it, than freedom,” James Baldwin observed in recognizing how limited our freedom is and how illusory our choices, for he knew that “people can’t, unhappily, invent their mooring posts, their lovers and their friends, anymore than they can invent thei
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In a world pocked by cynicism and pummeled by devastating news, to find joy for oneself and spark it in others, to find hope for oneself and spark it in others, is nothing less than a countercultural act of courage and resistance.
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It starts with a tremble in the stomach, a palpitation in the chest. You may call it intuition, premonition, foreboding. You may press it down with the firm fist of rationalism.
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In many ancient creation myths, everything was born of a great cosmic ocean with no beginning and no end, lapping matter and spirit into life.
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“There is no love of life without despair of life,” Albert Camus wrote as he reckoned with the rudiments of happiness. “We hope. We despair. We hope. We despair. This is what governs us,” artist Maira Kalman observed in her illustrated chronicle of the pursuit of happiness.
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“The past is for most Americans, unfortunately, rather meaningless,” the poet Robert Hayden said in 1976. “But some of us are aware of it as a long, tortuous, and often bloody process of becoming.
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Disproportionately Impacted. Dear Anarcha Without Anesthesia During Surgery with Sims. Dear Fannie and the Mississippi Appendectomies with the Sick and Tired Ceaseless Sonnet Crown.
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In 2019, Juneteenth will be celebrated as emancipation was in the old days: with calls for reparations. As the country marks 154 years since news of the end of slavery belatedly came to Texas, the House Judiciary Committee will hold a hearing on the subject of reparations for black Americans.
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Two hundred fifty years of slavery. Ninety years of Jim Crow. Sixty years of separate but equal. Thirty-five years of racist housing policy. Until we reckon with our compounding moral debts, America will never be whole.
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This article was published online on February 9, 2021. On a rainy Thursday afternoon in November, I stepped inside the National Museum of African American History and Culture, in Washington, D.C.
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Front Porch Reflections 
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