© Photo: Corey Richardson
My wife is not black.
Our daughters, by no choice of their own, are.
Not when we’re at home or with friends and family or surrounded by people who know and love them. But when they’re out in the world, with their bronze skin and curly afros, when they’re seen from afar or described by others, they’re as black as me or any of my ancestors who toiled the southern soil for free, felt the lash of the whip, suffered under Jim Crow or confronts the daily microaggressions of being part of the tribe.
Read more by Corey Richardson at www.msn.com