If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly
benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.
The spider's web is a home and a trap.
We are the memories we don't remember, which live in us, which we feel, which make us sing and dance and pray the way we do, feelings from memories that flare and bloom unexpectedly in our lives like blood through a blanket from a wound made by a bullet fired by a man shooting us in the back for our hair, for our heads, for a bounty, or just to get rid of us.
She told me the world was made of stories, nothing else, just stories, and stories about stories.
Some of us got this feeling stuck inside, all the time, like we’ve done something wrong. Like we ourselves are something wrong.