My heart. That brilliant, bruised, wide-as-sky organ that beats in my chest.
My father always said it would be the death of me. But I don't believe that, never did believe that a gentle heart, a caring soul was inferior, inadequate.
Dad certainly felt otherwise. To be softhearted made me deficient in some way, defective.
When I was 10 and I cried
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I just couldn't stop thinking about what happened in Charlottesville this past weekend, can't help but fear what comes next for our country. I didn't really want to write this either- I wanted to write something funny about faulty eclipse glasses - but I couldn't do it.
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God, your father. If that didn't soften his heart as to seeing things from another perspective, nothing will.
And yes-- I can't believe we're protesting against the same kinds of things as during the '60s. Trump has catapulted racism back decades into the past, by tacitly condoning its proponents.
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After reading so much about Charlottesville, seeing the images, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the event. About the hate and horror of it all.
I did grow up with a racist father, and a large part of who I am is a reaction to his blindness and negativity. What makes someone a protestor? Makes them fight for kindness and tolerance? I wanted to explore that.
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Well-written fiction, then. :)
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It is a great narrative you wove here. You did an excellent job of putting yourself in the experience.
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