🎶 Looking at the world through the sunset in your eyes.🎶
I support your right to express yourself. (I teach this every day.)
But please know, it is not my responsibility to make you feel better about what you are expressing, and I will not do so ever again.
If you’re spouting shit, you need to be prepared to sleep in it alone.
When it’s dark, and you’re alone, and it’s been a hard night remember that a light under the covers makes everything in the world alright.
Also remember the most important thing in the world:
People. Are. Good.
Remember that no matter what.
Remember that no matter who tells you otherwise. If they don’t see it, it’s just because they’re scared. They just need a hug.
So give it to them. Because they deserve it.
Because people are good.
🎶How the endless road unwinds you. While you see a chance, take it.🎶
Dear Huntsville Police Department:
Perhaps during the next protest, rather than climbing into a sniper’s nest, rather than surrounding a stupid outdated statue on a southern square, rather than avoiding the people to protect brick and mortar, rather than gassing and shooting peaceful protesters for hoping for a sense of humanity from you, perhaps, just perhaps, you could take off your body armor, and just talk to the people?
Believe it or not, that really is all the people are looking for from you.
Just some sense that you’re not our enemy. And that you see us as humans.
And not as targets.
An Open Letter to My Students: Black Lives Matter
It’s June 3, 2020, and believe it or not, I’m at a loss for words.
It’s been an impossibly stressful few months when we’ve moved from getting to hang out in class to isolation at home with people, especially people of color, getting sick and dying all around us. It feels like the end of the world.
On May 13, 2020, in a town I used to call my home, Breonna Taylor a 26 year old emergency room tech, barely older than any of you, was drug from her apartment and shot to death by Louisville Police. They shot her eight times.
And then on Memorial Day, it got much worse when four police officers arrested and murdered George Floyd in eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
It recalls for me the dark days of March 1991 when I was in school working on my Master’s degree. Then the verdict of not guilty was released after the whole world watched as three LAPD policemen savagely beat Rodney King in South Los Angeles.
It recalls for me the countless times between when black men, black women, and god help us, even black babies just playing in a park, have been gunned down by the very people we expect to protect us.
There just aren’t words for my rage when I think, this could be, and dammit probably will be, one of my students.
And so while there aren’t words for this, I cannot stay silent. I will not stay silent.
I am a middle-aged white man who has been born and raised in the South. I have benefited from our racist society for far too long. I have cried at the sights on TV but done far too little to stop the racism.
I’m sorry for my part, both direct and indirect, in allowing our world to be the way it is.
It ends today.
I love my students. Even those of you I’ve just met, I love you. It has been a privilege to teach and learn with you at our Historically Black College for the past 17 years. I’ve dedicated my life to helping you improve yours by helping you master communicating the ideas that are in your head. I’ve done this because I believe those ideas need to be heard.
I need to hear your thoughts. This is why I teach writing.
And so I promise you this:
It’s a horrible world where something like this needs to be written and spoken aloud, but I will, with your help and guidance, reject the position of privilege that is afforded me by my skin color, and I will work with you to make our world a place where my children and yours can walk freely, drive freely, live freely without fear of flashing blue lights.
Black Lives Matter.
My students matter. And I refuse to allow a racist society to continue to abuse you.
We are going to change this world. Together.
“The more senior you get in any profession, the more your job becomes about writing.”
There’s nothing so wrong that can’t be made right by an 18 month old boy, riding on his mom’s carrier, waving at all who pass, grinning around his paci.