I can’t find words for Michael Brown and Ferguson. Which is so terribly inconvenient, because there desperately, desperately need to be words. There need to be slow and quiet and steady words, and I just don’t have them. So these, the words I wrote on the day the Trayvon Martin verdict came back., these are all I have.
My heart is achy and messy, and I don’t understand the world. I only understand that, for the past day, I have been longing for Jesus to set things right more than ever. Which is maybe the only point that can come out of babies dying, grown and gangly and beautiful teenage babies.
In moments like this, I don’t even know how I got here, how I became the woman who fractures and breaks over this. And I just keep thinking about one person.
He was a gangly black boy, four solid inches taller than myself, a sophomore at the charter school where I did my first two years of teaching. We’ll call him J. My second year of teaching was his first year at that particular high school, and I was finally starting to feel like I had my feet somewhat planted as a teacher. The first year felt…
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