Dreamland Burning

I understand now that history only moves forward in a straight line when we learn from it. Otherwise it loops past the same mistakes over and over again,

The dead always have stories to tell. They just need the living to listen.

I don’t believe that history holds easy answers or simple lessons, because those answers and lessons are stretched out over thousands—millions—of untold stories. But I do believe that if we seek those stories out, and if we listen to them and talk to each other with open hearts and minds, we can start to heal. I believe that good people working together can create meaningful change.

Only one of us gets to be bitchy this early in the morning and I’ve got dibs.

The lives that ended that night mattered. It was a mistake for this city to try to forget, and it’s an even bigger one to pretend everything’s fine now. Black men and women are dying today for the same reasons they did in 1921. And we have to call that out, Rowan. Every single time.

history only moves forward in a straight line when we learn from it. Otherwise it loops past the same mistakes over and over again.

I understand now that history only moves forward in a straight line when we learn from it. Otherwise it loops past the same mistakes over and over again.

There's always been a love-hate thing between me and running. First off, if you don't get started at the ass crack of dawn, the Oklahoma summer sun will melt you into a puddle of good intentions. Plus, it hurts. I mean, have you ever seen a happy jogger? We scowl. We pant and grimace. In fact, if you ever see one of us smiling, you should assume we're a complete psychopath and run for your life.

That girl’s like a skeeter bite on the ass!

she’s nonverbal until her first cup of coffee kicks in. Before that, you’re pretty much taking your life into your own hands if you try to engage her in conversation.

But we wanted you to fill up on good things before you had to face the bad.

There's no room for us in your bubble.

What's that?" he asked. "A balance sheet," I said. "To keep track of your payments." He asked whether Pop had written it or me. When I answered truthfully, he handed the paper back like the useless thing it was. "Thank you," he said. "I won't be needing this." Which took me by surprise and set me stammering how it was proof he was making his payments, and how he should take it because it was the right and proper way to do business. "The rules aren't the same for me as they are for you," Joseph replied, shaking his head. "Don't you know that, Will?" Which put my nose out of joint so bad that I told him he was being rude, and that I was only trying to do him a favor at no small risk to myself. Joseph's face went blank as the cloudless sky overhead. He eyed the receipt. Said, "Thank you, Mr. William. But I can't accept." And got back on his bicycle. "That all you got to say?" I near shouted, frustrated at how easily he'd turned my good intentions into a fool's errand. And the quickest flash of hate you ever did see danced across the dark of his eyes. I stood there, feeling awkward and a fool. Joseph put one foot on a pedal and said, real quiet, "If you'll excuse me, I've a funeral to attend." Only then did I notice the band of mourning black around his upper arm. "Who died?" I asked stupidly. Joseph's eyes were flat. "Nobody important, Mr. William. Only a Negro boy like me.

The lives that ended that night mattered. It was a mistake for this city to try to forget, and it's an even bigger one to pretend everything's fine now. Black men and women are dying today for the same reasons they did in 1921. And we have to call them out, Rowan. Every single time.

Well, if 'exciting means drama and people dying and doctors and nurses rushing around like in the movies, then no, it wasn't. But if it means doing something that seems small now but can make a big difference in the long run, then it was.

Neo-Nazis, white nationalists, racist skinheads, neo-Confederates, the KKK - up until that morning, I'd had no idea those were all different things, or that there were so many different ways to hate black people. Racists, it turned out, were into diversity after all.

Yes, Dad was white, but Mom wasn’t. Which meant that to the rest of the world I was black. At Mama Ray’s, I wasn’t the awkward line in a poem. I fit the meter. I rhymed.