You see, I had already noticed something. I knew that I could easily get my hands on marijuana or ecstasy, make use of it in suburban basements, and watch other young anglo-kids selling drugs with very little fear of repercussion or criminalization. But my brown-skinned peers, who often lived in small apartments with no finished basements or spare bedrooms, were getting caught on street corners and incarcerated for far too long. Winter meant snow sports and fun for me. Winter means different things for different peoples.
I would later teach some of those peers' children in New Orleans. Kids growing up in the reality of a parent, a parent who loves them, serving far too much time.
This poem goes out to my brothers and sisters behind bars in Michigan today. I pray you find some warmth:
Click here to keep up with this discussion on Twitter