This is for the kids who die, Black and white, For kids will die certainly. The old and rich will live on awhile, As always, Eating blood and gold, Letting kids die. Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi Organizing sharecroppers Kids will die in the streets of Chicago Organizing workers Kids will die in the orange groves of California Telling others to get together Whites and Filipinos, Negroes and Mexicans, All kinds of kids will die Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment And a lousy peace. Of course, the wise and the learned Who pen editorials in the papers, And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names White and black, Who make surveys and write books Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die, And the sleazy courts, And the bribe-reaching police, And the blood-loving generals, And the money-loving preachers Will all raise their hands against the kids who die, Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets To frighten the people— For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people— And the old and rich don’t want the people To taste the iron of the kids who die, Don’t want the people to get wise to their own power, To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together Listen, kids who die— Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you Except in our hearts Maybe your bodies’ll be lost in a swamp Or a prison grave, or the potter’s field, Or the rivers where you’re drowned like Leibknecht But the day will come— You are sure yourselves that it is coming— When the marching feet of the masses Will raise for you a living monument of love, And joy, and laughter, And black hands and white hands clasped as one, And a song that reaches the sky— The song of the life triumphant Through the kids who die.

Langston Hughes “Kids Who Die” (1938)

As kids, we shopped around mosques and felt most comfortable at a Black mosque, so I think my parents were welcoming of Black Muslims, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t harboring anti-Black racism so prevalent in our communities. 

Take me away!

Real Gabinete Português de Leitura (Royal Portuguese Reading Room) in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (ig/@danni.soouza)

Pull up a chair and listen to THIS. Gilmore paints a thick portrait of the context behind why policing and surveillance is deeply imbedded in our public institutions, especially schools, and why we should be concerned. 

on the day that celebrates love, it warms my heart to see men sharing a vulnerability often denied them

Photographer Ann Sophie Lindström spent several months documenting  a group of horsemen in North Philadelphia who have been countering crime through their love for horses.  For more riveting photos of the equestrians of North Philly, here’s this week’s Spotlight essay from Emily Anne Epstein.

A stallion named Dusty rears up as Jamil Prattis, 25, leads him to the lot across from the Fletcher Street Stables, October 19, 2013. Jamil became involved with the horses when he was 12 years old, after he saw a group of urban cowboys riding through the streets of North Philadelphia. (Ann Sophie Lindström)

Jamil Prattis sits in front of his house on French Street, May 23, 2014. (Ann Sophie Lindström)

Stephfon Darnell Tolbert, 31, teases a pony named Harlem, making him rear up, October 2, 2013. Harlem is known for being aggressive when someone gets too close. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

A horse is tied up in front of a vacant lot on Fletcher Street while horsemen clean the stalls, October 6, 2016. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

Stable manager Edward E. Ward cuddles a horse named Maverick, September 29, 2013. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

Tymeir Sanders, 17, stops by a friend’s house on West Harold Street while out on a ride with Rosie, June 1, 2014. (Ann Sophie Lindström)��

Stephfon Darnell Tolbert, 24, prepares feed for the horses, October 16, 2016. The horsemen have tack rooms where they keep supplies, feed, and hay. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

Donnell Glenn takes Cash out for an evening walk, October 9, 2013. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

Stevie Spann, 50, checks on the horses before closing the stable for the evening, August 22, 2014.  (Ann Sophie Lindström)

Jamil Prattis, Stevie Spann, and Nate Benson sit inside a horse trailer to escape the sun and smoke, May 25, 2014. (Ann Sophie Lindström)

There is no indoor arena at the Fletcher Stable, so the horsemen like use the vacant lot across the street to train their animals, October 6, 2013. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

Romere Burch,13, rides bareback on a stallion named Ace N da Whole on Glennwood Avenue, October 3, 2013. (Ann Sophie Lindström) 

Secrets

tender things unsaid folding into themselves

ribboning sentiments hidden within fleeting moments

new admiration wrinkled with creases

so as to make these things unrecognizable to the admirer

so as to make the admirer suspicious to the adored

dreams in song

Trying to make melodies without rhythm. Without capability. Culpability taken for missing beats.

Said I got it. Just roll with this. That or the other isn’t comfortable silence.

Breaks and bridges in places they weren’t mean to be. Neither as easy as they say nor hearing what I envisioned.

Sights set high long ago. Resisting loss of attention. Distracted. Now wishing to hold both original and mixes.

Up from constant noise near and from a distance.

Making familiar dissonant rest stops. Starts only to freeze mid composition.

Conducting no classic without cadence. Resolving for imperfection.

Improvising with hope borrowed. Repeat the hook. Trust, vision and sound.

Resilience

Give me a challenge I can talk about

Talks I can tell my line further down

Time has a way of tying these streams of misfortune into a journey

Streams held securely with bonds of faith in self