Police brutality is in the news now, and rightly so. But I’m old enough to remember Jim Crow. Separate restrooms, water fountains, bus seats, even cemeteries. It’s why I wrote my novel SPITE FENCES. I constantly remind myself of the painful nature of those indignities, the routine dailiness of them. When white folks say there’s no racism, I think they suffer from a lack of imagination. Imagine what it might be like not to sit down at a lunch counter, not to pick a bus seat of your choice, not to choose your seat at the theatre. And of course not to feel safe walking the streets wearing your own skin. Imagine. Just imagine.
RACISM: FAILURE TO IMAGINE
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