| When I walk down the street you make sure your car doors are locked, you hold your children closer and cling tighter to your purse. You remember to have that conversation The instrument used to terrorize Every time you lock me up, I don’t know about reparations….. But at least pay me
Peace, |
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Here’s a good one for you: My brother-in-law’s mother (caucasian) is waiting at a traffic light in Salt Lake City when a car with two African American gentlemen pull up along side to stop for the red light. She reaches over and locks her door. The gent nearest in the other car reaches up & locks his door in reponse.
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I must admit, I’ve done that a time or two myself
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Great piece!! I hope you are well my dear! *blessings* Theresa
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I have been waiting for a while to comment on this. I was locked out. This is brilliant, as is your other works. I really like this one. Keep it up. Peace.
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Thanks Blackstarr,
I really appreciate your remarks probably more than you realize. This one has been rattling around in my head for sometime and I actually wrote it severaldays ago but was reluctant to post it because some of my recent post have been kinda dark (no pun intended) and retrospective. Then something happened last Friday at my son’s high school basketball game that made me realize the time was right to put this one ot there.
Thanks again,
Peace,
Tenthltr2u
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When I was a teenager, growing up in Indy, I always knew when there was a new cop on the beat in some of the areas where my father had accounts. He ran a janitorial service and my younger brother and I worked for him. We would get stopped and our van searched for things like not having our plate illuminated. And the stories go on and on.
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Reblogged this on Back On The Block.
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