Seems obvious to me that that the author of this piece, like all black people, have the memories and effects of monstrous mistreatment in our DNA. I think this is destined to become an anthem of our healing.


this may or may not enhance your reading pleasure.


I dread sun rise.


Spanish moss hung from trees like the raggedy dress on that old hag from up the line.


The swamp on the other side of the plantation always haunted me. Thick, bottom heavy cypress standing like sentries warned me of the dark places where a little boy could get missing. Many went missing in that swamp.


The midday heat laced the air with what seemed like black strap molasses that stuck to a little boy like an old quilt; dense, heavy and inescapable. Something like ol’ miss’s eyes, she had hate in her–from birth.


Cotton could be seen from one end of the Earth to the other or what was Earth to a little boy. A little boy also knew white meant nothing good, be it soft bolls of cotton or ol’ miss.



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2 Responses to “”

  1. CREE-EIGHT Says:

    Thank YOU, sir.

  2. thank you very much Ms. CREE!!!

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