“C’mon, Champ, let’s go swimming at the Y.”
Usually my dad called me Knucklehead, Lump, or Fogbound. But Champ! He could have said to me, “C’mon, Champ, let’s go jam frozen peas up our noses!” and I’d have been standing at the freezer before he could say, “I was joking. You’re a basket case.” Because he’d called me Champ.
[Read more…]
So, you know my mother and father—your grandparents? When their parents were the age you are now, there were black senior citizens walking around everywhere, who, from the very moment they were born, were owned by white people.
[Read more…]
When I was 9 and 10 years old, my mother was always out on college campuses—San Jose State, Berkeley, San Francisco State—rioting for civil rights and against the Vietnam War. (1967-68 was an extremely busy time for social activists.) [Read more…]
What else is there to say about this? [Read more…]
I haven’t seen where anyone else has said what I’m about to (although I have to assume many have: there’s only so much news one can take in), so I won’t feel like I did my job during this phase of our collective lives if I don’t say it at least once. [Read more…]