And this narrative riddled with alternative facts that amounts to lies.
You are dark-skinned beautiful. African daughters and sons of the original man. Melanin-infused by the Creator’s hand.
We need you to show up. Black or white. Young or old.
Most of my personal revolutions occurred without fanfare, without ceremony, and usually in the still quiet of my soul.
Slow down, of course. Maybe even change lanes to give the stopped vehicle a wide berth.
You have no idea the battles I’ve fought inside American newsrooms while many of my black colleagues sat mum.