Tuesday, November 25, 2014


Harlem, by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

My heart is aching this morning.

What can I possibly have to add to the conversation? Here is a sampling of what speaks to me on Twitter:

@wilw: If only there were some process, perhaps a legal process, to present conflicting accounts and statements, weigh them, and come to a verdict.

@rapsodymusic: "It doesn’t take 100 days to decide if murder is a crime, it takes 100 days to figure out how to tell people it isn’t" - @LeVelleMoton

@billmaher: Waiting until night do to what you could in the day seems strange. Reminds me of how the Colts left Baltimore

@michele_norris: Why was this announced at night

@langston_poems: I am so tired of waiting, Aren't you, For the world to become good And beautiful and kind?

@RosalindR: White privilege is me getting to be outraged while my black friend is terrified for the safety of her son.

@nprscottsimon: Pray for the peace of Ferguson.

I write today because if I keep silent on injustice it is a crime. And, to me, deciding that this loss of life is not worthy of a trial is clearly an injustice. All along the way there have been so many opportunities to handle this the right way that have been ignored--no--spurned by those in power. It is not just one injustice but thousands upon thousands, both big and small.

None of us are free.
None of us are free.
None of us are free, one of us are chained.
None of us are free.







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