As I watched the cart carrying the body of John Lewis across the Pettus Bridge, I was reminded that in 1965, brutally beaten, Lewis was taken to Good Samaritan Hospital, run by Sisters of St. Joseph — the only one in nine counties that received Black patients.
On Father’s Day, my family took my dad somewhere I'd never been: the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Its highlight is an outdoor landscape populated by dozens of sculpted works.
Twenty-two. That’s how old I was when Yusef Hawkins was killed by a bat-wielding, gun-toting mob of white men in New York. Eleven years later, it would be Amadou Diallo, who reached for his wallet and was met with 41 bullets.
June 1: Penguin Random House tweeted from their verified account, “We stand against racism and violence toward the black community. And we commit to listening—to our readers, to our authors, and to our teams—as we work toward becoming part of the change.”
In August, the nightmares start. It's not that I don't love my job. I do. But still, like every teacher I know, I experience excitement, worry and even a little dread as the first day of school approaches.
Among the casualties of modern era — which at present include the rotary dial telephone, black and white television and good grammar — another cherished part of my childhood stands poised on the edge of extinction: the snow day.
This coming Christmas will be my third without my father, and I still miss him terribly. But it was during the first Christmas season without him, while I was shopping in one of my favorite bookshops — fantasizing about which book to give to which person — that I found myself feeling surprisingly giddy. I thought, “Oh good! Dad's gone!”