If I cannot air this pain and alter it, I will surely die of it. That's the beginning of social protest.

Those of us forged in the crucibles of difference know that survival is not an academic skill.

Raising Black children-female and male-in the mouth of a racist, sexist, suicidal dragon is perilous and chancy. If they cannot love and resist at the same time, they will probably not survive.

I am a bleak heroism of words that refuse to be buried alive with the liars.

The oppression of women knows no ethnic nor racial boundaries, true, but that does not mean it is identical within those boundaries.

Our visions begin with our desires.

Learning not to crumple before these uncertainties fuels my resolve to print myself upon the texture of each day fully rather than forever.