Janelle Gray's Blog, page 13

Like Nina Simone

This election wasn't the first time people threatened to leave the country if a particular political party came to power. It's a threat uttered often; but is rarely intended. But what would happen if the threat wasn't empty? What would have to happen to seriously compel people to pack their things?Darnell Lamont Walker has been a creative for years. All you have to do is look at his long list of books, his IMDb, or follow the musings on his blog to see that. But just a short year ago, he added documentarian to his resume.With influences such as James Baldwin and Nikki Giovanni, it’s no wonder he references a Nina Simone quote when talking about the subject matter of his documentaries. “As an artist, your art has to reflect the times,” Walker said, “And that’s what I’m doing.”The idea for his documentarySeeking Asylumwas an accident. Walker, the constant traveler, was scheduled for a European trip just days after the 2015Freddie Gray murderin Baltimore, Maryland. The outrage over yet another death of an unarmed African American at the hands of law enforcement prompted his friend to ask, “What are you going to Norway for? Are you seeking asylum?”Walker grabbed his camera and he and a few friends set out on a trip through Oslo, London, and Amsterdam. Along the way, they discussed their feelings of leaving the U.S. in search of safer grounds and their fears of staying. They also took to the streets and asked Europeans their opinions about what’s happening in the U.S. and how it's different in their country.Racism is a concept that many people understand all too well. Despite what some media pundits may say, most people of color live with some sort of racism almost every day. And it’s clear that this documentary has struck a chord with many black Americans.Still, there are members of the white audience who don’t completely understand where Walker's coming from. Although there have been only a handful of times where people have walked out, a majority, Walker says, are still supportive. “But,” he adds, “they watch it from a place of privilege.” It’s this seat of privilege that may cause some of them to ask him why he hates America so much.To that he responds, he doesn’t hate it; he’s indifferent towards it. He likens America to a sort of foster mother of black Americans who, at any time, can give them back. And, although the opening scenes of the documentary are of the multiple high-profile police brutality cases, he says he very much feels like America treats the black community in the same violent and unfair ways. And, he wonders, why do we stay somewhere that we’re not wanted?Walker does acknowledge that the U.S. does not hold a monopoly on racism. His travels have led him to believe that the world is anti-black. Citing examples like Black Pete in Amsterdam and Cape Town’s racism toward Africans by the Afrikaans, he accepts that racism is a world problem. But in other places, he says, “If I get stopped by a cop, I won’t all of a sudden tense up, be nervous, and fear for my life.” This freedom from fear does exist. “And that was all of the places that I’ve been except America,” he says.A current resident of Johannesburg, South Africa, Walker practices what he preaches.Seeking Asylumis kind of his story. Although, he doesn’t know if South Africa will be the place he puts down roots, he does say that there are many countries worth exploring. “[The U.S.] isn’t the only place to have a dream.”So often, the lens of the world is on the United States of America. ButSeeking Asylumturns the lens to other countries and asks them what they see of the U.S. while delving into the depths of a complex set of feelings that many African Americans feel about their own home country.With such a vast and diverse audience in the seats, Walker said he wants them to get “that [the U.S.] isn’t safe for black people. And I want them to be able to stand against racial injustice toward all people of color; and the mistreatment of anybody.”I don’t fangirl for many people. But Mr. Walker is starting the conversations we should all be having and pushing us to ask ourselves some deep questions. And I’ll always jump at the opportunity to post about his new endeavors.(Hint:I'll be posting about his newest documentary in a few weeks)To follow Darnell Lamont Walker, check out his bloghere.And while you’re at it, watchSeeking Asylumhereand start your own conversations in your own communities.Click here for the full interview 

Remembering out loud

“He shot an unarmed kid” was the first comment I heard regarding the murder of Trayvon Martin. It was a discussion between two people at a neighborhood bar. It was actually 2 days after the shooting and I had no idea what they were talking about. Then I looked up at the television and saw the news story. I remember thinking, “Why had there been no arrest so far? Why was this man still walking free?”As the days passed and more of the story unfolded, I found myself with many, many more questions. As I looked at the remembrances in my newsfeed on Sunday, February 26, I had to ask myself, “What progress have we made?”I, unfortunately, think we are more divided than ever on issues of race, crime, gender equality and a host of other issues. There was a time when the shooting death of an unarmed person, especially a child, would first raise the question “How could this happen,” as opposed to “Why was he in that neighborhood?”I know that Trayvon was not the first African-American youth to be shot; but his murder seemed to propel a movement. Everything about his murder was wrong. The crime itself. The delay in arrest. THE DEFENSE. It seemed unconscionable that anyone could defend this. And yet, they found a way. This is the first time that I can remember a case that appeared to be so cut and dry and still got the results that it did.With the acquittal of his killer (whose name I do not speak) the value of African-American male lives appeared to mean nothing. For the first time in my adult life, I was MAD. Sure there had been anger over the years when I felt there was injustice. But this time was different. Maybe because I was a mother, a sister, and a cousin to African-American children. I felt the pain of loss. I felt I needed to speak up; do something. And since then, I have.I am not silent in the face of injustice. I am not silent in the face of racism, sexism, homophobia. I will not allow the deaths of Trayvon, Michael, Eric Tamar, Sandra and the countless others be in vain. On this the 5th anniversary of your death, Trayvon Martin, I remember, I mourn and I speak out for you.

What can we do?

Scanning television channels at my grandmother’s home, I stopped onBoyz n the Hood. My grandmother asked me to turn off the, “black violence.” A few days ago, my mom and I had a conversation about race. She probed the question, “Who kills black people?” Expecting me to reply, “Black people.”As a white woman in my mid-twenties brought up by a single mother and grandmother in a lower-middle income household, I do not know how to respond to my mother and grandmother’s assumptions of the black circumstance. I do not know how to approach issues that matter to all women yet have a different meaning or reality to women of other ethnicities.I do not know what it’s like to be a woman of color, but I do want to learn what white women can do to carve out injustices being served to women and communities that suffer every day because of racial inequality.We’ve continuously placed black communities in a situation that is unlike our own.  And our bias system has consistently deprived minority communities of resources, education, health care and equality. To catch a glimpse of systematic racism we only have to review our criminal justice system and observe black incarceration rates in our prisons or research social services and the housing industry to understand the mistreatment of communities of color.Just as an example, let’s look at the United States’ unwavering War on Drugs.  For decades the United States has been fighting a war on the production of drugs domestically and abroad. However, the fight has had hardly any effect on production, but has, domestically, influenced the incarceration of black and Hispanic people.1In the 1980s and 90s, the media showered the public with images of gang violence and the brutality of the “streets”, and they shoved anti-drug rhetoric down people’s throats. They wanted quick results, but failed to think of what the long term consequences would be for minority heavy neighborhoods.  Thus, the War on Drugs combined massive increases of police spending with new sentencing laws that disproportionately affected black communities.2For instance, crack cocaine and powder have essentially the same chemical make-up; however, possession and intent to sell had dramatically different consequences between the respective narcotics.  The new laws issued that a person in possession of 500 grams of powder cocaine would receive five years in prison, whereas, a person in possession of five grams of crack cocaine would receive the equal five years in prison.You can guess who was buying and selling crack and who was buying and selling powder.  And you can rightfully assume where the new laws had their most dramatic impact.Between 1983 and 1997 the number of incarcerated black Americans grew by over 2,000%.  That’s six times the rate of increase for their white counterparts.Today, I see my own community and family aiding in the continuation of placing blame on individual actions and not looking towards the source or the history of our own actions.I see white feminism hurting our country and its fight for justice as it fails to comprehend people and women of color are received differently and have varying interests.The Women’s March on Washington was supposed to be a time aimed at solidarity amongst all women striving for equality concerning reproductive care, LGBT issues and equal pay.  However, it was rightfully criticized for its inability to bring accord across racial boundaries.  The feminist movement has historically focused on the issues of white women who have consistently cast black and brown aside to push an agenda they see fit to all women without consideration of those further oppressed.I did not attend the March, but was proud to see so much diversity and spirit involved.  Then, I started to read a lot of criticism.  I read Chi Nguyen’s piece,"An Unpopular Opinion About the Women’s March on Washington"and felt sick to my stomach. Nguyen was angered by the actions she saw white women commit during the march.  She remarked on white women disregarding “Black Lives Matter” posters and chants, asking people of Asian decent where they were “actually” from and ignoring speakers who were people of color or who spoke on police brutality.While I’m not surprised, it hurts me to know that white women acted that way and continue to fail to see how race influences a person’s experience in the world.It’s also difficult to hear the truth about white women and how we don’t understand.We need help and direction.  We need cold facts and historical information on how we’ve contributed to the current reality of exclusivity, racial tension and oppression.   I want to know how white women of privilege, like myself, can interrupt the status quo and make change for the better.That’s why I am asking women of color to give me guidance.  What can we do?  How can we approach our communities?  What should we focus on?  Is it possible to hold a feminist platform that is inclusive along racial, gender and religious lines? Can we somehow unite under these differences in order to construct understanding of the consciousness of others and their situation? Do we have the capacity for that type of empathy? Or is it best to separate our platforms seeing as our circumstances do not align?References:1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NKwJI9axblQ&t=789s2http://www.pbs.org/video/2365889620/

Expat by any other name

February 10 was my two-year anniversary in Colombia. When I moved, my friend, Kathryn, was doing a documentary about people emigrating from the U.S. So, I am fortunate enough to have footage of this huge change in my life.It seemed fitting that we would watch it on my anniversary weekend. I sat there with tears in my eyes (I mean, you know I cry at anything). But these tears were of so many emotions: a reaction to my cousin who cried when I told her I was moving, the scenes of family prayer and laughter around the table, and my sweet friends.As she interviewed me, I realized it’s not just about those warm and fuzzy memories. I tried to describe those first days when I got off a plane and stepped into a country I had never been to. I was completely alone. I walked into a country whose reputation was drugs and violence.She filmed me walking through the city for the first time. She filmed me looking for apartments with, even after years of studying, debilitating limited Spanish. She filmed the breakdowns after smiling, brave-faced phone calls with my family that melted into terror. And this weekend, I sat there watching myself, almost unrecognizable, reliving it all.She asked if I remembered what I was feeling. And I will never forget. Immigration is tough. The idea of moving somewhere for a better life is idyllic and beautiful. But the overwhelming pressure that you constantly feel? Most people don’t hear about that.As an expat, people always view my move as positive. Some brave soul who moves to another county to create their best life. Someone with the guts to move to and through the unknown with grace and toward adventure. When I talk about what I’ve done and those first few months, I’m usually met with admiration and high esteem.These are the same people I see speaking so vehemently against immigration. And before this turns dangerously political, let me say I’m not arguing restrictions or policy. I’m arguing attitude.In my first blog post on the way to Colombia, I said:I was asked about my decision to [move] and how that affects my patriotism. To be honest, I never knew my patriotism was in question. But I answered. So many times, we, Americans, use our love of and devotion to our country, at the exclusion of all others, as a litmus test for true Americanism. But I think that undermines what America is really about.America is the most ethnically diverse, multicultural nation in the world due to immigration. Our national DNA is rooted in pretty much every country, culture and religion around the world. To be honest, I believe traveling is more likely to make me a better American than a worse one.If I can be the face of humanity in a world where America’s compassion and humility are sometimes unrecognizable, I will. And if I can bring back to the land we call home stories of love and acceptance, I will. And hopefully, we will all be the better for it.The only difference between an expat and immigrant is that we tend to use the word “expat” to describe people from a predominantly English-speaking, wealthy country. When I look up photos for “immigrant” and “expat,” I get completely different photos.To those who know me, I ask, how would you feel if you saw me standing at a counter struggling to figure out how/what to order? How would you react if you knew people turned around to me and demanded I speak their language knowing that when I tried, they would make fun of me? Would you jump to my defense if you heard them yell for me to go back to my country (oddly, that’s also a phrase that’s been yelled at me in the U.S., but I digress)? What would you do?None of this has actually happened to me here. But it has happened to some of my students who have recently traveled to the U.S.Still, I live in their country. I speak English. I celebrate Thanksgiving. I wear my Texas shirts with pride. I am not Catholic and I do not practice Catholicism. I have not completely conformed to their culture. And yet, I feel perfectly comfortable doing those things without hearing obscenities or disparaging remarks.I have stood before strange-named fruits and wondered what to buy. I have fretted in lines about what denomination of bills to give so I don’t look like an idiot that can’t count. I have used Spanish words incorrectly and pronounced them wrong (still do). I have had to navigate rent, employment, and health insurance contracts in Spanish legal-ese. I’ve given wrong addresses to frustrated cab drivers. I’ve asked people to repeat themselves countless times and at slower speeds so I can understand. I’ve smiled and nodded at inappropriate times because I didn’t understand. I have walked into my home and burst into tears because of all of this stress. I have literally worried myself sick. And I have confined myself to seclusion, ordering food from a phone application because the outside world was just too much to handle.And the funny thing? I’d say 90% of the time the people have been gracious, patient, kind, and helpful. So I can’t imagine how I would have felt if I were treated like and talked to the way some people in the U.S. treat immigrants.Many of you know me, love me, and supported me on this journey. You encourage me and have told me that you are encouraged by me; which is an undeserved burden I humbly accept.When I moved, my uncle’s parting advice was, “May you find something transformative and liberating. May you lose something that held you hostage. May those things force you to be a better citizen of the world…”And as citizen of the world, I am sharing the stories of love and acceptance I promised. I am not an expat. I refuse to wear my American privilege.I’m proudly proclaiming that I am an immigrant. See my face. Hear my story. Acknowledge my fears. Admire my bravery. Praise my efforts. Recognize that this life, this change, was not easy.And as a citizen of the world, I hope that changes how you view and treat some of the immigrants in my homeland.Create hope. Forge a path. Change the world.j

Why Can't I?

The baby boomers are those born between 1946 -1964. The following generation, “Generation X,” was born between 1965 – 1984. There are discrepancies where this generation ends and the next one begins. Some say “Gen X” ends at 1982. I am 34 years old. I’m going to believe this makes me a part of Gen X.Like most Gen X-ers, I tend to look down on the generation after mine. “Generation Y,” or the “Millennials” as they are also called, were born roughly between 1982 – early 2000s. I try not to assume how a person is based on their looks. But when age comes up, I assume away.My assumptions on Millennials are that they ask too much. They think they are deserving of “this or that,” without regard for the efforts it takes to achieve “this or that.”Just a bunch of entitled, spoiled and really whiny generation, I think. Don’t they know they have to earn everything by working hard? That nothing in life is free? They don’t know how good they have it!My biggest headache, I recall, was a conversation I had with my niece. She doesn’t believe in labels – such a millennial thing to think.“What do you mean, you don’t believe in labels?” I asked her.“If I fall in love with someone just because they happen to be another girl or boy, I don’t want to be labeled as a lesbian. I could be, but I’m not. I’m not bi, either. And who cares if they weren’t the same sex as me? We shouldn’t put a label on who we love, anyway.”The first thing I thought was my sister – her mother - was going to kill her.The second thing I thought was just how wrong she was. Labels give us boundaries. Labels help us know where we stand. If we don’t have a label, then who are we?If this election has taught me anything, it’s this: maybe the next generation is onto something. After all, women couldn’t vote, join the army, or work until a younger generation petitioned, marched, fought and won. I bet that their mothers and their grandmothers looked down at them, and scoffed, and called them spoiled and entitled.According to Merriam-Webster, entitlement is defined as “the fact of having a right to something; a belief that one is inherently deserving of privilege or special treatment.”When I think of a millennial, I think of the second definition. Why don’t these 20 somethings understand that you have to work at things, and not get them just because they feel they deserve it?That question is typically asked by someone who is older. “They don’t know how good they have it. Why can’t you accept your place is in the kitchen? Why do you need to vote anyway?” Sound familiar?These arguments have been back and forth, and someone, somewhere asked out loud, WHY? WHY CAN’T I?It never occurred to me until recently that it applied to all these things we’re still fighting for today. As a woman, why can’t I get paid the same as a man, for doing the same work? As a mom, why can’t I do both: work or stay home? Why can’t I be happy with one and not the other? As an immigrant, why can’t I have the same opportunities that my native born peers have, if I work for it? As a Christian, why can’t I just let love win for once and spread His message of hope and grace?Why can’t my homosexual neighbors have the same rights as my family? They didn’t choose who they fell in love with.Why can’t we let police officers be police officers without assuming racism is at play? And why can’t we let African-American boys and men just be regular boys and men without assuming the worst?Why?Someone asked these questions generations ago. Someone, somewhere threw a pebble across a societal lake, which caused a ripple: an effect. Society wanted to know why we can’t accept the way things are now. Why can’t we just leave it alone? Why do we have to feel entitled to more?Because, quite frankly, those reasons are not good enough. Those reasons keep us from moving forward. If we are to progress as a whole, if we are to pretend equality actually exists in this country, we have to keep asking, why can’t I? We have to stop believing these causes and these marches are those of an entitled generation. They’re asking for these things, these rights, because it’s common sense. Because it’s the right thing to do.They are basic human rights. We grew up believing everyone had an equal access to them because we got what we wanted. We became complacent about our roles in society. As a woman, I can vote, I can work. Why do I have to ask for more? Better yet, what does my label as a woman, as an immigrant, as a decent human being, have to do with anything I ask for?I will continue to work hard for the things that I want. I will also show my son and daughter that in the end, labeling hurts us. Labels give us boundaries. They keep us from breaking free and growing. Labels don’t define all of us. Labels don’t define our passions. Placing/Putting us in categories never account for the journeys we take, the scars we have, and the people we leave behind.I am a Christian woman.I am a Filipino American who immigrated here as a child.I am married to a first generation Mexican-American man.I am a mother.I am a Preeclampsia Survivor and advocate.I am a writer.I am a voice.I am a ripple.These labels are me but they don’t define all of me. And I am tired of people putting me in these neat little boxes and telling me to accept the way things are. I’m tired of listening.So to the Millennials, keep asking. Keep stirring. Keep throwing pebbles across the proverbial lake. Some of us, in the “older generation” are finally listening.

Freedom of Speech*

There’s a dozen of us standing on a street corner outside of the US Embassy in Bogotá. The signs in our hands address sexism, racism, homophobia, and the current political climate in the U.S. Most of us are somewhere on the spectrum of Gringo–Colombians who have lived large parts of their lives in the US, Gringas born to immigrant parents, and US teachers now living in Bogotá. And we’re not happy with politics in that shared home of ours.Across the street stands a row of police, dressed in fluorescent green. Through most of the protest they outnumber us. Off to the side, there are four observers in red jackets with “Bogotá Mejor” patches on their chests. They were sent by the city to ensure our right to freedom of speech, to protect us from police, and to protect property and police from us. This Saturday, however, they won’t have much to do. We are a calm, albeit saddened bunch. Still, I felt watched.The embassy’s private security circled around and take pictures of us on cell phones. They circle around and repeat. The press comes. Some of the protesters raise their signs to cover their faces for the pictures – visas and jobs are cited as reasons for anonymity.Then there’s the permit. A few days before, I marched down to city hall with a typed letter notifying the city of our intention to protest. It’s got my name, address, ID number, e-mail and phone number on it. After running up and down three flights of stairs and having four people read my intention to protest the incoming president and his proposed policies, I’m finally taken to the right window.Two days later I receive authorization in the form of a PDF, sent to my e-mail, with a helpful list of rules protestors are to abide by. And a legalese point in Spanish that I think means I am responsible if anything goes wrong, and to be honest, I have no idea what that means. I’m expecting half a dozen English teachers and I know it’ll be very tame. But still.The morning of the protest, a friend and I get off the bus by the embassy. Police are abundant, and a motorcycle with two cops - standard motorcycle entourage in Colombia - pulls up on the sidewalk. He asks for our IDs – also standard here from what I understand. They record our names, take a picture of our permit, make some comment about not having explosives in our bags, and have me show the inside of my backpack. I stood there hoping they didn’t confiscate my scissors. Turns out the explosives thing was a joke.My friend, also a foreigner, thinks we got over-policed. I, after an adolescence in the US, don’t.  Still, I’m white, and so is she, and that has an effect on how we are likely to experience policing in the countries where we grew up. Because there, the power status quo is also white.This isn’t a comment on what is “normal policing,” but rather, a reflection on how different our expectations of normal policing can be, depending on country, race, socioeconomic status, gender, and other outward markers. At first I think my friend is naïve if she doesn’t expect a bit of muscle-flexing from the police. Then I start to think that I’m the one from a skewed, twisted reality, where killings by police give rise to social movements, and that her expectation represents some kind of healthy, alternate universe.Everything went off as planned and we were treated, in my opinion, well. The Bogotá city hall folks were helpful in getting our permit set up and, reading between the lines of their professionalism, I think they were with us in spirit and cause. Beyond being asked for ID and stared at for two hours, we were not hassled by the police. Only the U.S. Embassy’s private security who took photos, but they weren’t police.We were a dozen middle class professionals protesting on a sidewalk; probably among the least alarming protests in the world that day.Then why, even in this easiest of circumstances in which to protest, exercising a fundamental right to express our opinion, guaranteed by both the US and Colombian constitutions, and doing everything by the book, couldn’t I shake that adolescent feeling that I was implicitly “in trouble,” just a bit? That what I was doing was legal, certainly, but not encouraged? And that somewhere inside that embassy, my name was written up on some list next to that cell phone picture snapped by the private security, and that I had no way of knowing what that meant?“Don’t overstate your own importance,” I tell myself. Then I counter, “don’t be naïve.” The Panopticon survives on mystery. Nobody in our group was an Abbie Hoffman or anything close. We were unimportant, not-wanted individuals. Still, not wanting one’s picture taken by security or press must have implied that my fellow protestors, too, thought they were doing something that somebody in power might deem punishable. Clearly, my uneasiness wasn’t mine alone. Nobody was risking prison or beatings. We could go home and watch Netflix in the afternoon if we wanted to. But even in those circumstances, exercising freedom of speech seemed to come with an asterisk and some unspoken fine print. Nobody knew exactly what that fine print said. And you probably don’t just knock on the Panopticon’s door to ask.

What are civil rights?

I struggled with what my first blog piece would be. There are so many topics to be discussed. But I thought it best to start with this question.Many groups yell about civil rights: about them being violated, or upheld, or non-existent. But do we really know what they are?Civil rights are defined as the rights of citizens to political and social freedom and equality. I am of the belief that many of the world’s problems could be solved by applying a childhood lesson that we often leave in childhood: Be polite; treat others how you want to be treated.In a world where politeness is often forgotten or confused with political correctness, it’s no wonder there is a fear of the loss of these rights. Looking at policies and not politics, I wonder, if our treatment of others would change for the better if we were to say, "if the roles were reversed in this particular policy, is this how I would like to be treated?”Before writing this piece, I reached out to several friends and asked what civil rights meant to them. And do you know what I found? Those two words mean something different to each one of them.Another thing I noticed is their answer was either a lack of specificity or an unintentional selfishness. These are some of my closest friends and family. They are some of the kindest, big-hearted, selfless people I know. But in answering the question, some used a blanket statement of equality or life without discrimination.Others responded the same but qualified it with respect to their demographic. For example, the Black person mentioned equal accessibility to freedoms for both Black and White people or reminding White America that we are equal. The woman mentioned having the freedom to make life choices that are respected. Or the gay man mentioned living his life without fear.Again, I know these people. And I know that they would absolutely stand with others even if they couldn’t personally identify with certain challenges. But what are we saying and doing when we specifically define civil rights as it pertains to our personal demographic? Do we really want civil rights for everyone?If we apply our own narrow definitions, we end up respecting someone’s religion but not their sexual orientation. We end up shouting for their rights as a woman but not as a Mexican American.We have to not only widen our definition but also be intentionally specific. Naming the marginalized groups empowers us to identify them and seek change with them.I was guilty of giving the same answers my friends gave me. Writing this post has forced me to redefine civil rights.For me, civil rights is simply the right for every person to receive civility. Regardless of our religion or lack of, or sexual orientation, race and ethnicity, or gender, our voice is equal and should be mutually respected; not dismissed or undermined.We each have the right to be treated as others want to be treated. Because, let’s face it: no one wants to be killed in jail over a traffic stop, or arrive at their place of worship to disparaging graffiti, or forced to live a life that’s comfortable for others but detrimental to self.How will you define civil rights? And how will you actively respect and protect the civil rights of others?Create hope. Forge a path. Change the world.j

The New Echoes Blog

Hi! Welcome to the Echoes Blog. Before I get started, let me tell you a little bit about where this comes from.When I wroteEchoes of the Struggle, I wrote it with the intention of starting a conversation. Much like the main character, Dani, I was raised by very accepting and loving people. They were open to all races, religions, genders, and sexual orientation.Today, our country, actually the world, is divided. It’s not divided between races. It’s divided between people who think racism and inequality (on all fronts) no longer exist and those who experience it every day.Echoes of the Strugglewas my way of starting a conversation about the Civil Rights Movement, both past and present. But the Echoes Blog is my way of continuing that conversation. And let’s be clear: This is not about Civil Rights as it pertains to race. This is about Civil Rights. Period. As in how it pertains to all humans.The Echoes Blog will not only post interviews and news with me and the book. It will also post interviews with others striving to have these conversations, projects focusing on inclusion, articles about what’s happening in the world, and my own editorial remarks on what I see.I won’t clutter your boxes. There will be one post per week. That will give you a chance to read it, think about, share it, and perhaps try to understand a different point of view. Thus I shall name it, “Thoughtful Thursday.”THIS IS AN INTERACTIVE BLOG! So that means I want to hear from you. I will be reaching out to my subscribers to get their stories, opinions, and experiences. I can’t have a conversation without you. I am also, absolutely open to you submitting your own writing to share!This, my friends, is how we change the world. Let’s get to work.Create hope. Forge a path. Change the world,j