Fresh off the walls of the August Wilson Center for African-American Culture.
This piece || de facto, de facto || is a prayer. An outpouring. A bursting. A statement. A calling. And, a reflection. This piece is the words we do not have to express what it means to be still separate, still unequal. That conversation. In 2019. The blood. The scrubbing. The shells from the shores of the first landing site of a ship carrying kidnapped and enchained (yes, it’s a word today) African people. The bleach. The forced experiments on our bodies. The money. The wealth built from our labor and expertise and rebellion. The drugs. The numbing. The distance. All of it. A prayer. And, these are the words I could not find.