Sometimes, the injustice was just too much. Sometimes, the truth needed to be spoken, to be screamed, to be scrawled out on walls in sloppy red paint where no one would miss it, and when those times came, she was no longer afraid. She embodied veracity.
As a young kid I lived in a little town south of Detroit: I was raised on soul, Motown, funk, disco, and basically whatever other “black music” my mom could shake her moneymaker to during the 60s and 70s. I inherited that gene, thankfully. My personal search for soul happened on a dance floor, too.
Some people talk about how finding stillness is more and more difficult in this modern age, where we go go go go go all the time, where a momentary chance for stillness is replaced by checking Facebook on a smartphone, but it’s something we humans have apparently had difficulty with for thousands of years already, even before handheld distractions. I find some comfort in this, honestly, because I’m a doer. I’ve always been a human doing. I was raised by hardworking, blue-collar folks with a hardcore work ethic; I have such difficulty as a human simply being.
31 Days of Writing Wild is a set of writing prompts and a challenge from Beth Morey of sheofthewild.com. I’ve taken the challenge, and this is Day 2, I Don’t Remember. It’s a little bit of writing about plumbing, poop and marriage.
31 Days of Writing Wild is a set of writing prompts and a challenge from Beth Morey of sheofthewild.com. I’ve taken the challenge, and this is Day 1: At the end.