I was six years old. It was March 13, 1979. My father took the oath to become a Cook County, Illinois, deputy sheriff. It was a decision that, for a Black man born and raised in Arkansas under Jim Crow to a family with little in the way of material resources, promised to be the …
In a culture that worships at the altar of youth, my enthusiasm about turning 50 (a mere 72 hours from when I’m writing this) may seem strange. I mean, 50 is old, isn’t it? Or at least well along the way to “old.” And who the hell wants to be old? Despite what society tells …
When my then-husband and I moved to Maine in 2002, the plan was to only be here for eight years. As soon as my son turned 18, and I no longer needed to be in the same vicinity as his father, I would be free to leave Maine. I’d be gone. For sure. Definitely. Oh, …