When I adopted my daughter almost 32 years ago, no one knew George Floyd. Rodney King was the first video taping of brutal police beating that I could remember, and it never occurred to me when I looked at her beautiful brown little face peeking out of that pink fleece blanket that she would be subject to any kind of racism. I didn’t truly understand the ramifications of “racism” as we know it today; not just the overt confederate flag waving type, but the stares in the stores, the limits on her that are bred in the institutions white folks take for granted.… Read More
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