In that motel room I saw my father forever altered, with lasting wounds, like the scar on one of his hands—hands I’d studied and knew by heart.
My kin may have erased themselves, but I won’t erase them. Just as I may be their wildest dreams, they are also mine.
I dug my hole trying to keep up with a social calendar I couldn’t afford, which is often what happens when you feel like you don’t belong on the social calendar to begin with.
My connections to the country and its people, my family, didn’t require control or even words. Touch, color, and togetherness were enough.
I know by worrying about a room of mostly white readers I undermine myself, but it’s become instinct. And, honestly, I just get tired.
This was not the information I was looking for. This was not the truth I wanted.