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Camera lenses, like childhood memories, make spaces appear much larger than they are. Like the Dallas book repository, like the Lorraine Motel, Selma emerges, from the cold rain, small – only a…

Once in Decatur, Georgia, a conversation on Race led to one of my hosts getting up and coming back with a folded white piece of paper. He extended it out to me…

In the dim gray light of a rainy Thursday, reluctant Birmingham looks like every city. From my 12th floor window, I’m thinking about my mother in Richmond, Virginia, 96, spending most of her days…

Solamente la vida I am writing a song now that I do not know how to write. The music came in the case with my new ukulele. Honestly, I picked…

“The Children of the Whitney” by Woodrow Nash