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I love how Marian Wright Edelman moves so easily between the analytical and the spiritual, between devastating statistics and poetry. Her oratory posits great moral truths with quiet, almost casual, certainty - as if decency is common, and she expects it, and shouldn’t need to raise her voice or ask us twice. 

Jimmy Wayne speaks like the soul of country music - honest, full of faith but often irreverent, celebrating narrative. He also has a way of eliciting decency from us; like a friendly stranger on a Greyhound headed south, he shares the difficult story of where he’s been and the love that saved him, and invites us to give that sort of love to someone who needs.

Thanks Freddie Mac Foundation and Higher Achievement for allowing me to share a story in this lyrical and enlightened company. I am renewed in my will to serve children.

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We pray for children
Who sneak popsicles before supper,
Who erase holes in math workbooks,
Who can never find their shoes.

And we pray for those
Who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,
Who can’t bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
Who never “counted potatoes,”
Who are born in places we wouldn’t be caught dead,
Who never go to the circus,
Who live in an X-rated world.

We pray for children
Who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money.
And we pray for those
Who never get dessert,
Who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,
Who watch their parents watch them die,
Who can’t find any bread to steal,
Who don’t have any rooms to clean up,
Whose pictures aren’t on anybody’s dresser,
Whose monsters are real.

We pray for children
Who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
Who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
Who like ghost stories,
Who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse out the tub,
Who get visits from the tooth fairy,
Who don’t like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
Who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone,
Whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those
Whose nightmares come in the daytime,
Who will eat anything,
Who have never seen a dentist,
Who aren’t spoiled by anybody,
Who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
Who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children who want to be carried and for those who must,
For those we never give up on and for those who don’t get a second chance.
For those we smother … and for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind enough to offer it.

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— Marian Wright Edelman, “A Prayer for Children”

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A recollection of 9/11

It struck me a couple months back, talking to the girls I mentor, that despite growing up in its shadow, many kids today don’t really have a sense of what 9/11 was, what it meant, what it means.

I remember the day well. I was coming out of first period English class when I got news that the first plane had struck. Students and teachers huddled around TVs, excited, hushed, then horrified. My little sister came to me crying and I held her as we tried to get our young minds around it all.

School got out early the afternoon and when I got home I joined my neighbor Bekah on her porch swing. We sat there in silence mostly. We lived in Anacostia, between Bowling and Andrews Air Force Bases and there was a constant traffic of planes and helicopters overhead, presaging the shock and awe to come.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I ached quietly for those we’d lost, and for the people who’d feel their loss most agonizingly. I ached, too, for what we would lose. Young as I was, I remember having a clear sense of what the events of that day meant. 

I was heartbroken in anticipation. 

I new that the terror was just beginning; that these next years could be dark ones for high ideals at home, and hellish ones for anonymously-brown people in places invisible to our moral esteem.

At school on September 12th, we were invited to share reflections on the moment we were living through. I shared a poem I’d scrawled on notepaper the uneasy night before. It appeared in the Washington Post’s 9/11 memorial centerfold the next week.

I only really recall the opening verse:

That majestic pair,

The twin towers, 

Symbols of power’s mighty swell, 

Cowered in jet plane’s rough embrace, 

Then crumbled and fell.

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I saw a photograph today, of a yellow rotary telephone. The Western Electric 554. It seized me, transporting me back through time, conjuring a wave of emotion so powerful I literally fell out of my chair. It was the telephone that hung on the pancake-colored wall by the kitchen doorway at 1342 U, my childhood home.
It was the one I used to call Bekah on, wanting more than anything to hear her voice on the other end telling me that she could come out and play; the one that Mom whispered anxiously into that night when a gang of lost boys came looking to settle a score with my brother.
I could write an entire novel about that phone.

I saw a photograph today, of a yellow rotary telephone. The Western Electric 554. It seized me, transporting me back through time, conjuring a wave of emotion so powerful I literally fell out of my chair. It was the telephone that hung on the pancake-colored wall by the kitchen doorway at 1342 U, my childhood home.

It was the one I used to call Bekah on, wanting more than anything to hear her voice on the other end telling me that she could come out and play; the one that Mom whispered anxiously into that night when a gang of lost boys came looking to settle a score with my brother.

I could write an entire novel about that phone.

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A couple months back I found myself on a boat in the Amazon, my hammock strung up beside those of about 80 fellow travelers. We would form an odd sort of community over the five day journey. Directly across from mine, a woman shared a berth with her young child, a girl, maybe two years old. One day around noon, after bathing the child, she gave her a chocolate covered galleta. The chocolate quickly melted  in the amazonian heat and when I turned over in my hammock to see what the squeals of joy were about, I saw a beautiful baby girl, naked, smiling and covered in chocolate. It’s become the metaphor in my mind for unadulterated, unabashed joy. That’s how I want to live - naked, laughing and covered in chocolate.

A couple months back I found myself on a boat in the Amazon, my hammock strung up beside those of about 80 fellow travelers. We would form an odd sort of community over the five day journey. Directly across from mine, a woman shared a berth with her young child, a girl, maybe two years old. One day around noon, after bathing the child, she gave her a chocolate covered galleta. The chocolate quickly melted  in the amazonian heat and when I turned over in my hammock to see what the squeals of joy were about, I saw a beautiful baby girl, naked, smiling and covered in chocolate. It’s become the metaphor in my mind for unadulterated, unabashed joy. That’s how I want to live - naked, laughing and covered in chocolate.