November 19, 2018
I literally don’t want to write this. It is very disturbing. However, my conscience compels me to share what people have probably already wondered.
When I returned here from the driving trip in 2014 all I wanted to do was write. Write about the drive and write about my mother. I was told in my head repeatedly to stop writing about my mother, stop bringing up my mother, stop thinking about my mother. Does anyone really wonder why Cherith reacts in such a way at times and over the last few years? Is there anyone in the world who must listen to a WRONG person in their head? Don’t think about my mother?! Of course, I was thinking about her because she was already dead, and I wasn’t there.
The only time in my life I wasn’t there for my mother.
It has struck me as to why, why is this man in the news all of a sudden back in 2015 or 2016, why am I seeing this man in the news?
I cannot let go of the feeling that it was intentional against his mother. Medically intentional against his mother. From a doctor, intentional.
T-shirt this night confirms it. Yet, it is a little more sophisticated and devious than that. Mostly what I think, and feel is; it is about – love. A mother’s love for a son. A son’s love for his mother.
I know there has probably been a rational and intellectual conversation and description as to why black face has been allowed. I still find it abhorrent. However, its true meaning is so perverse and disgusting I am not able to find the words that can convey the true nature of its purpose.
I went to Chicago with a friend I worked with and her sister. We took a picture in a store making it appear as though we were on the set of Star-Trek.
I understand that the “disguise” and make-up they placed on him was to demean and humiliate him, and me in the process. What is his nationality?
Real father of mine, real brother of mine, I know, and I see it differently. Relieve yourselves of any guilt, you did not know. I am neither worried nor upset with either of you.
In a way, it is a relief to know the reason why I was so protective of my mother. There was always someone in that neighborhood, in this state seeking to destroy my mother and her blood.
I spend more hours here writing then I can afford. I spend almost as many hours here writing as I get paid for in manual labor. The hardest job I’ve ever had.
I simply cannot write anymore tonight.