I am keenly aware of my white fragility: the defensive clinging to a belief in my fundamental goodness and fairness.
I mean, who doesn’t love LeVar?
This past decade, the losses I have experienced—a painful miscarriage, the death of my wife, the endless procession of professional rejections—would have been unbearable without the intellectual spark that initially pushed me to write and reflect.
Joy is within and without each and every one of us, even in times of grief, in conditions of despair.
I am struggling. I struggle every damn day.
A love letter to my father.
Not all Thanksgiving memories are happy ones.
Sometimes the void is infinity.
These books helped my son grow from a sad, scared, angry three year old, to a confident middle-schooler with a big heart and a wicked sense of humor.
On grappling with sexuality in widowhood