If You Don't Understand, Ask Questions. If

Her Blog Was Doing Well, With Thousands Of Unique Visitors Each Month, And She Was Earning Good Speaking Fees, And She Had A Fellowship At Princeton And A Relationship With Blaine - "you Are The Absolute Love Of My Life," He'd Written In Her Last Birthday Card - And Yet There Was Cement In Her Soul. It Had Been There For A While, An Early Morning Disease Of Fatigue, Shapeless Desires, Brief Imaginary Glints Of Other Lives She Could Be Living, That Over The Months Melded Into A Piercing Homesickness.

The Educated Ones Leave, The Ones With The Potential To Right The Wrongs. They Leave The Weak Behind. The Tyrants Continue To Reign Because The Weak Cannot Resist. Do You Not See That It Is A Cycle? Who Will Break That Cycle?

I Have My Father's Lopsided Mouth. When I Smile, My Lips Slope To One Side. My Doctor Sister Calls It My Cerebral Palsy Mouth. I Am Very Much A Daddy's Girl, And Even Though I Would Rather My Smile Wasn't Crooked, There Is Something Moving For Me About Having A Mouth Exactly Like My Father's.

Richard Exhaled. It Was Like Somebody Sprinkling Pepper On His Wound: Thousands Of Biafrans Were Dead, And This Man Wanted To Know If There Was Anything New About One Dead White Man. Richard Would Write About This, The Rule Of Western Journalism: One Hundred Dead Black People Equal To One Dead White Person.

I Would Come, Many Years Later, To Understand Why To Kill A Mockingbird Is Considered An Important Novel, But When I First Read It At 11, I Was Simply Absorbed By The Way It Evoked The Mysteries Of Childhood, Of Treasures Discovered In Trees, And Games Played With An Exotic Summer Friend.