The Charleston Massacre has gotten in the way. I originally intended to write about personal things using my garden and yard as a starting point and source of metaphor and meditation. The murder of nine people at Mother Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, South Carolina, has gotten in the way,
Yankees and Rebs was as much a part of childhood play when I was growing up as cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. The good guys were the Confederate Rebels because Kansas City was part of border state Missouri that was more southern than northern. There was no deep discussion but a good deal of romanticism. There were somehow still wounds from having been on the losing side; somehow the Yankees were still seen as oppressors.
Whenever any whiff of understanding about the burdens of being African-American pierced the veil of subtle white supremacy (the…
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