(Photo of my mother and son, taken by me, 1997)

When I think about America, I think of the multi-millions of Indigenous peoples who were killed, who were raped, who had their children ripped from their arms or who died from diseases deliberately introduced. I think of the African peoples torn from their lands, their cultures, their professions and histories, drowning in the ocean, suffocating in a press of bodies, beaten bloody beneath a burning sun, being sold and treated worse than animals. These are my ancestors.

When I think about America, I think of the incoming immigrants, the settlers…

Red Haircrow

Writer, psychologist, educator, chef & filmmaker, single parent of Autistic Spectrum YA, cat fan, gamer.

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