I have grown accustomed to the journalistic bumps, bruises and slights that accompany my inescapable blackness.
John W. Fountain
The true measure of a man is not what he gives from his abundance but from his lack, even as he stares face to face at his own mortality.
Converse was cool, a status symbol to a ghetto boy — crown jewel to a hoops ensemble of thigh-high basketball shorts and a T-shirt.
One thing I have learned for certain: Haters gonna hate. And this brand of hate splinters far too many families.
A cry for a church that the young man inside me once knew and still remembers.
Do most preachers today address the failings of the church at large, now wallowing in the swamp of church-mega-mania and toxic bling-bling Gospel?
Freedom has never rested in our oppressor’s hands.
Only the foolish dismiss the scribe who records the history, hopes and dreams of a people.
In your arms, we found freedom to be as black as we wanted to be — free from isolation and racial animosity.
Let us sing again those spiritual songs that once ushered a movement in America toward civil and human rights.