After reading only the first lines, I found exactly what I needed to defeat Obama. Yes, I'd clobber the candidate that my parents supported. Sprawled on my beanbag in the corner of my room, I opened my laptop, skipped Facebook and rushed to my new first stop --The Week. There it was, the headline: "Fast and Furious."
I slide out of bed around 5:25 a.m., the sun still preparing for a long day in the sky. It's pitch-black, except for the faint light at the end of the corridor, which leads upstairs to Nana's house. This illumination is my sunrise every morning. As my foot touches the cold tiled floor, I arrive at my early morning sanctuary.
I've dissected these stories, written and rewritten them, sat with them, prayed with and for them. I've thought about how it's going to affect my family, my mother more than anyone. These are her secrets I'm revealing, her shame, that silence that has eaten through us like gangrene. This silence killed my brother.
My mother is a character from a Tennessee Williams play... but without a Southern accent. I am her second child and was born when she was 16 years old. Her childhood was cut short and never spoken of in a way that imparted a sense of safety or innocence. Each man she ran away with she hoped would rescue her from the last. She gave up every child she bore to some degree.