I still hear you humming, Mama. The colour of your song calls me home. The colour of your words saying, Let her be. She got a right to be different. She gonna stumble on herself one of these days. Just let the child be. And I be, Mama.

I probably have not killed anyone in America because I write, I've maintained good controls over myself by writing.

I shall become, I shall become a collector of me. And put meat on my soul.

Art... reacts to or reflects the culture it springs from.

And I cried… for all of the women who stretched their bodies for civilizations, only to find ruins.

...I write to keep in contact with our ancestors and to spread truth to people.

I cannot tell the truth about anything unless I confess being a student, growing and learning something new every day. The more I learn, the clearer my view of the world becomes.