Racism in black and white and yellow

Racism in black and white and yellow

The N-word was not spoken on Thatford Avenue; not in anger nor in jest. I didn’t hear it at home or school, or in the dreary little shops we and the other poor frequented or on the gritty streets where we played hopscotch. I’m not saying Brooklyn was a citadel for forward thinkers, but rather a holding cell for those who might produce a future president or those who would end up homeless. The Euro-poor of my childhood knew how tenuousness their financial safety was in golden America. It made us overly polite and humble to the point of timidity.

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True Romance

True Romance

True romance is hard to define:  It’s the time when your mind and heart throb to the same passionate beat.  It erases your fears and past failures, deems you worthy and worthwhile and showers you in crackling light.  Unfortunately, it’s fleeting:  True romance won’t wait for you in the morning.  It rarely survives the night, but its details will visit you like magi with gifts of memories.

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