Freelance Journalist
Durham, N.C.
Topic: Explore the issue of postpartum depression in African-American women.
Published Work:
I know blue. Thick, smudged blue, like ink oozing from the spine of a broken pen. Like a vat of indigo, tipped, sloshing, splashing, running in fast rivulets then sighing into dry earth. Like the atmosphere at midnight, swelling to squeeze out even the tiniest prick of light from the stars. Blue I know.
I just read a report that says that black fathers are 50 percent more likely to be depressed than other men. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.
She comes to your office for a mint. She selects a piece of candy from the ceramic bowl on your desk and begins to chat a little. She lingers. Chatting.
I’ve tried and tried. Been to retreats; done it at church; practiced it walking, sitting, chanting, silent. I’ve made a place to “sit” at home. But meditation does not come easy for me.
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