This blog post began as an incomplete article for the then Baldwin-Wallace College Exponent in 2006. Over a decade ago, in the backwaters of Cleveland-area late night television, there appeared commercials for Norton Furniture. These commercials were spectacularly tacky, like only a homemade and locally-broadcast commercial can be. The owner/manager of the store, Marc, would be the focus of the commercial, speaking directly to the camera while some off-screen or on-screen hijinx or other odd happening was occurring in his area. The commercial that follows is a fairly representative sample.

One day in the spring of 2006, my friend Chris and I cooked up a scheme to find out what the deal was with this Marc guy. Was his voice real? Did those pieces actually exist in that furniture store? And could we really count on it?

As it turns out, we could, but that’s jumping ahead in the story a bit.

In the spring of 2006, my college career was careening off the rails a bit and I had come to the realization that I was not going to graduate on time. Instead of coming to terms with this realization and making plans for the future (full disclosure: I did finish my B.A. in the fall of 2006), I stayed up late and had anxiety-fueled idea sessions. One of these commercials grabbed me. What was this place? Was it real? It was all so… well… strange… and my white-bread brain couldn’t process it. Also, what does it mean if you can’t get credit anywhere but you can there? Anyway, Chris and I talked about this commercial and we wanted to get the inside look as to what was going on. How? How could we find out the inner workings of this place?

We would be reporters. One of us would photograph. The other would interview. We would say that we were reporters with the Exponent (we weren’t) and that we wanted to fill in the student body out in Berea on the details of this bizarre wonderland (we kinda did – but that wasn’t the point.) History was on my side here, you see.

I had previously faked being a reporter for the Exponent when I’d been a freshman. The McDonald’s All-American High School Basketball Game was being held in Cleveland and practices were being held at the gymnasium at Baldwin-Wallace.


Ryan LaFountain – Definitely Fake News.

A couple friends and I were curious about what was going on and we’d heard that Lebron James had been spotted on campus. We wanted part of that action. We wanted to meet Lebron and check out the practice sessions. First words out of my mouth:

Why don’t we say we’re from the Exponent?

Luckily, the burden of proof required from the  organizers was non-existent and we were able to each procure a media pass and invitation to go to Gund Arena to meet with the players and others. We met Lebron, which was cool, and Kevin McHale, who, by the way, is one tall-ass human being. Anyway, this is all to say that, yeah, we could get away with acting like with were with some piddling college newspaper.

We drove from Berea to 2106 Payne Ave, Norton Furniture’s only location, just outside of downtown Cleveland. I was excited. Chris was excited. We had generated this ruse so that we could meet the Marc Brown from Norton Furniture! There was nothing completely and unexceptionally lame about that!

Marc was an interesting cat. Astute businessman – he’s still in business! – and his voice sounded exactly like what you heard on late-night Cleveland television. I no longer have the notes from our made up assignment, so this is all going off of memory and the pictures that I have jogging my memory. Walking in, I remember being blown away by how large the interior seemed. Floor pieces seemed to just go on and on. Marc invited us to his office to discuss business a bit and, again, this part’s been lost to me. I do remember how clear he made it that he would do business with almost anyone. Part of that belief to give people a chance when extending credit has shaped my understanding of credit since. He also invited us to take a tour of the store.

This was what we really came for. Did he have all of the crazy pieces that showed up in the commercials?


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Yes. Yes, he most certainly did.

The pictures really tell the whole story. Mark with his two lamp ladies, me sitting on a couch gazing at a zebra’s rear. And they were all for sale! What kind of furniture was this? my 21-year old mind asked in wonder. Was this for real?

It was incredibly for real, very much unlike the article I was going to write for the Exponent. What a shame, too, because so many of those memories could have been better documented. But the article didn’t happen.

But at least we’ve got the pictures.


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A Holiday De-lighting

For one last time in December 2017, the luminous fir spruce sitting in our living – slash – family – slash – library room would have its lights shut off. Down come the star, the surviving glass ornaments, a glazed-into-time sugar cookie that I made 25 years ago in 2nd or 3rd grade, the garland, and the assortment of lights that adorned our slightly cockeyed tree for 2 weeks. I think my fiancée wants to play Taps at the de-treeifying of the house, but I’m fine with seeing it go. Not being one who celebrates Christmas anymore, it just doesn’t mean anything to me – except maybe that it’s a tree, cut out from its forest of friends, just to serve whatever strange celebration we humans oblige it to. That and the showers of needles that fall on the floor any time someone walks by it with a slightly heavy foot. I’m no neat freak, but there is something about constantly seeing needles adorning our pine floors that makes the skin on my back crawl.

We sit in the multipurpose room, on couches once covered in cat hair, but now covered by bedsheets. The menorah sits on the mantle. The tree sits quietly in the back corner to the left of the fireplace. The room has assumed a mournful quality, as if the feeling of the tree’s being removed is a known fact by all those in the house and the house itself. We still have yet to clean up the wrapping paper scattered about the room since the morning. If we put doing that on hold, we don’t have to return to the real world of living in the office, or so we reason. Earlier this afternoon, we went to the Hotel Roanoke for their Christmas brunch. Until today, I had never eaten a meal in the Regency Room where I had to pay.

The food was delicious: a prime rib that was juicy and filled with flavor; heirloom potatoes; roasted leg of lamb; carrots cooked in a ginger and butter sauce. Despite never having had a Christmas meal quite like that, every morsel and bite exuded warmth and memories of Christmas – some plot to get me to remember Christmas as it never existed? Maybe. The dining room reminded me of a museum. Everyone seated, eating, and mostly aged over 65 years. It was like dining with the dead, everyone trying to eat their memories of Christmases of times gone by. Servants Servers wearing their uniforms, cooks in hats, hostesses at the entrance: it all smacked of something that felt as if it was lifted from years ago. It wasn’t natural – or, at least it didn’t feel natural. I told my fiancée this. I told her that it felt like we were eating in a museum, that it felt like a dinner date with the 1950s.

I would have hoped for a 1950s-sized bill. That’s one thing that didn’t stay in the past. Inflation set its teeth in and the business owners decided profits must be made, along with the unannounced 20% gratuity. I only hope my server got his cut, I’m not sure how they work the tips and gratuities at the Regency Room.

Oh – and the tree? It still waits for its final fate: in a heap on the curb, as we do to things we no longer deem time for. Except for Christmas brunch at the Hotel Roanoke. Somehow, for some reason, it survives.


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I remember

“Why are you a Democrat, Ryan? I just don’t get it.”

That conversation happens a lot more than I care to admit and I can only give a two word answer: I remember. Of course, there’s a lot more to the answer than simply two words, but that’s the gist of it. It doesn’t have the same implications of the je me souviens of my Québécois forebears, but it’s all about remembering. Before I was in a relatively cushy job where I small-scale control the levers of capital, I waited tables. Heck, I documented some of the stuff that happened to me on this very blog! I remember days waiting tables at a chain restaurant in a college town, dreading going into work. Dreading going to work because, well, it turns out that people in a college town who go to a chain restaurant tend to be abusive if you don’t fit their worldview and don’t provide much in terms of financial remuneration for the verbal abuse.

Yes, the dreaded Ten Commandments coin tip. I worked 60+ hours a week for $2.13/hour, for a franchisee that would willfully not pay if you didn’t hit minimum wage (at that time, that would have been an additional $3.02/hr). Turns out it’s pretty hard to get by when you’re taking in about $200 per week. Basic math dictates that the bills are going to have a hard time being paid on a salary of word salad derogation and token representations of the Decalogue.  Who’d have thunk? There’s an additional rub to this whole mess, though.

Have you ever been injured on the job? Do you remember that story from the 1990s of the woman who sued McDonald’s following being scalded by their superheated coffee? Well, here’s a combo platter for you. About a month after I began working at said chain restaurant in above named college town, I was severely burned by a faulty hot-water dispenser attached to a tea brewer. My right hand experienced blistering and it hurt like an angry mother.  I was 22 and I had no idea what to do. My employer was useless. So I iced it. No health insurance; couldn’t go to the doctor. Obamacare was still the fevered dream of a liberal, so I couldn’t get coverage from under a parent’s plan. My hand blistered and slowly healed without medical attention; I have no idea what infections I could have exposed myself during that period of unsupervised recuperation. Of course, the bills needed to get paid, no such thing as paid time off when you’re working a low-skill job.

A couple weeks after the hot water incident, I developed a cold. Coughing here, there, everywhere. Again, I couldn’t go without the income, so I became patient zero in whatever petri dish that this restaurant was in March of 2007. This cold didn’t respond to a mass influx of OTC medications and an endless stream of citrus and evolved into pneumonia. Again, no doctor options since no insurance and the limited income also limited how much medication I could reasonably purchase. It sucked. I was sick for 4 weeks. 4 freaking weeks of hacking and cough, having a hard time breathing, and having to work for a crowd of people. By the way, have you tried doing a job interview while having a fever of 102 degrees?

It’s an experience, I’ll tell you what.

But that, in short form, is why I’m a Democrat. That’s why I support a living wage or some sort of basic income for every person, universal health care access, and strong labor rights with robust private-sector unions that collectively bargain for all employees. Because for a short period of my life, I learned what it was like to live adjacent to the margins, not truly on the margins, since I could rely on my education and privileged position in society to get me out of the table-waiting game. And while I had always thought of myself as a Democrat before, up until that point, I didn’t understand the implications. It was always an abstraction. Health care was an abstraction. Insurance was an abstraction. Everything was a goddamn abstraction from a book. Never real, never experienced. Until then.

That, my friends, that is why I am a Democrat. That is why I am proud to say that I support socialist causes and policies – I experienced just the lightest bit of living at the margin and it sucked. And I am not willing to let others have to live through that.


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Epistula ad vitam

Dearest life,

I’m tired, yo, ya see? I’m tired of being constantly racked by anxiety and tension, of feeling this weird shit in my chest that’s probably nothing, that my doctors say is nothing, and i want to believe is nothing. I want to believe that my aversion to the heat is just that and that my fatigue after being outside in the heat is normal.

I know it’s normal, i mean, who the fuck doesn’t get worn out by being active in the heat of summer.

But fainting last week in the bathroom after C woke me up on the couch – dude, that shit is scary! I felt light headed and then BAM down i went. The subsequent bruising was none too pleasant, either. I feel, however, that i need to feed my soul’s meter. There might be a couple neglected tickets on it that deserve my mind’s attention. Maybe i ought to start paying attention to not only my body’s signals, but my mind’s signals as well. I’m not the best at picking up cues. Just ask C.

But that’s something i can work on.

But, dearest life, i’m growing tired of this shit. Man, i can’t drink 2 beers anymore without feeling completely garbage the next day. What’s with that? How can alcoholics do it and not lose their minds in the thick haze of headache that settles down for the greater portion of the next day?

Oh wait.

They can’t. Well, most of them. Some are so-called functional alcoholics, but it seems to me that “functional” is only a matter of perspective. You’re only functional up to the point when your body fails you. And I’ve been doing my damnedest not to do that for over the last year, dearest life.

You see, I have this unusual desire to stay alive, to bring a child or children into this world, to show and give love to as many people as I can. That’s why I cut back on drinking and quit smoking and have never touched anything harder than reefer. This getting older stuff, though. It’s for the birds. Combine that with routine systems maintenance – how does anyone get through this shit alive?

Eventually we don’t.

That’s why we need to take care of ourselves and each other, dearest life. It seems pretty self-evident, but i often lose sight of it when staring down a work project and find myself drowning in the midst of chaos. Better chaos than entropy, though. Right? What are these things on my soul’s windshield? What splatters and smears have clouded sight out of it and what tickets – damn, they’re still there – am I neglecting?

This one says I’ve overstayed my metered allotment and it’s time to move on from this parking spot, it’s time to let someone else in. This one is a warning to slow the fuck down before you spin out and crash into a wall and goddamn, son, you might kill yourself if you don’t take it easy. Another: parked the soul facing the wrong direction in the street. I didn’t even know they ticketed for that shit!

Stopped too long. Speeding. Looking backwards. Running stop signs. Where do the traffic infractions of my soul’s vehicle end? I guess here. They end here – when I stop and pay what’s owed to myself to rectify these citations and violations. Too many more and what’s going to be the point of wanting to continue with existence when I’ll be stopped for one final, flagrant metaphysical moving violation and that last citation, that last ticket will get my license revoked for at least a little bit. Unsafe at any speed, they’ll say. Can’t be trusted behind the wheel, they’ll say.

It’s time to pay back what’s owed, right? Settle those debts and move on with a clean slate. They’ll say that guy’s doing his best. They’ll say that guy – he’s here, he’s trying, and that’s the best you can do in this life. Keep trying.

And I guess that starts today.


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16 years on

It was a crystal clear morning. Mr. Martin’s health class went about as normally as it always went, until a knock at the door. Mr. Martin went over and conferred briefly and then went to the back of the classroom where there was a rabbit-eared television on a rickety cart. He turned on the television. We were greeted by speculation. There had been a horrible accident and a plane had crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center.

And then, very quickly, it became clear that this was no accident.

I might have slept a couple hours that night, having been glued to the television all day, anxious for what was going on, despite my own personal isolation from where anything might actually happen. After school wrapped up on September 11, 2001, my sister and I did what we always did: rode the bus home from school. I refused to get a driver’s license because I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility of having a car (and how the times change) and one of the unexpected consequences of that was that I was entertained by myriad hypotheses from fellow bus riders. Who did it. Why they did it. All cracked out of the imaginations of 14 to 18 year old public high school students.

We got home. Bethany, Tom, and I went to Gino’s for ice cream and pizza. Al Jazeera was on the TV in the cramped restaurant. I had never seen Al Jazeera before. The coverage on Al Jazeera was a breath of fresh air – it was detached and not filled with the rancor and emotion that we had been watching all day on CNN and (MS)NBC. The journalists were calm and not fueling rampant speculation.

I probably didn’t eat – whenever I get anxious, the first thing to go is my appetite. At some point thereafter, I left and walked a bit and ended up walking to my school district’s Superintendent’s house. This wasn’t terribly unusual, Mr. deGrandpré was the faculty advisor of the Key Club, of which I had lately served as the President. He invited me in and we discussed what this all meant as cameras panned in and around the smoldering rubble of lower Manhattan and pulverised human remains. Who did this? Why did they do this?

It became clear very early on that the narrative was that Islamic terrorists were responsible – something I did and do believe – and that it was an unprovoked act of pure evil – something I did not and do not believe. No one around me tried to bother understanding the situation in the Middle East, our bizarre relationship with the Saudi regime, our support of authoritarian regimes in the region who would be our friends and continue to supply us with cheap petrolized remains of dinosaurs provided we looked the other way and provided support when they cracked down on dissent.

It seems to me, even 16 years later, few people still try considering that. No, it is instead the Great Donnie Show – throw the Muslims out! build the Wall! M A K E A M E R I C A G R E A T A G A I N. All that meaningless bullshit. No, we’re more interested in building walls between each other, between ourselves, than we are at considering what has happened over the last 16 years; instead of giving ourselves to thoughtful consideration of managing the things that we *do* have control over, we, as a country, gave the keys of power to someone who has styled himself in the manner of a 3rd-world strongman. Mouthy. Loud. Belligerent. And incredibly lacking any capacity for compassion and circumspect. Instead of consideration, we created a storm of consternation for others with a President who lashes out at perceived slights in 140-character shouts. The great question is now not will America be made great (again)? but rather, will American democracy survive the next four years?

The last 8 months have been a mixed bag, to say the least. Left-leaning interest in smaller, local elections has reinvigorated the possibility for the end of right-wing dominance in many localities and states; however, the President’s commission on voter fraud will do its damnedest to ensure that it is as difficult as legally and plainly possible to vote. Kris Kobach will certainly see to that. Neo-Nazi and KKK groups have rallied in Berkeley and Charlottesville, among many localities, only to be met by larger counter-rallies to denounce their clinging to the object’s of America’s strange-fruited past. The neo-Nazi and KKK movements witnessed a resurgence after the election of Barack Obama in 2008. I remember very clearly when Obama was elected that gun stores in the Athens, Georgia, area held Obama Protection sales: stock up on those guns that he never said that he was going to take!

That fear, that baseless fear, helped lay the groundwork for how screwed up the United States of America is right now. Most of us didn’t stop to think and examine: we relied on the truthiness of the matter. We didn’t need the head to listen, we paid attention to what our gut was yelling and our gut was yelling that this foreign-named black Muslim guy that the country just elected President scared us, but we couldn’t say that he scared us because what are we racists or something (yes) so instead we said nothing about it, pretended it was all cool, went out and bought guns until we were armed to the goddamned teeth, and went about our lives with the rug bulging from stuff we had been sweeping under it.

And election night 2016 is when the rug erupted. All the vitriol, the hate: President-elect Donald Trump was here to fix it with the magic of his business acumen.

I laid in bed that night, thinking about what kind of world my son or daughter in 7 1/2 months would be born into. A month later, that worry would no longer matter: but still, what world would we continue to bring new life into? 2016 had already made itself known for the celebrities to depart from this Earth and all of a sudden, the election of Donald Trump seemed to promise a repeat performance on a grander scale.

As he looks at the red button, he chuckles to himself. There is no God but Don now. All our base are belong to him. North Korea, Iran, China, Russia, Israel, France, Germany, Canada: all you countries that doubted him shall see his truth. He’s fired anyone who has attempted to corral his energies in any meaningful way. Missile systems are ready for launch. After a moment, when the cameras are ready and focused on him, this big moment that he never thought he would be in in his wildest dreams, he presses down on the red button, looks up and without a hesitating moment, says in to the camera, “Missile: you’re fired!”

And all this because of fear. Because we didn’t stop and wonder to ourselves if this fear made any sense, if this fear stood up to the facts, if this fear was based in truth instead of truthiness. Our fear speaks not from the head, but from the gut. Gut emissions tend to come out one of two ways. Neither particularly pleasant. Please, I beg of you, let’s stop for a moment and reflect and talk about it. The sand is no place to keep a perfectly good head.


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Feeling like goo.

If you’re wondering what’s happened to me, I think I can sum it up in one word.


Over the last 6 weeks – really, ever since C and I moved into the new house – stress has been gradually building up in me and I have had no place to put it and have not dealt with it in any meaningful way. I stopped going to Soul Sessions to watch and perform poetry because by the time 8pm rolled around on a Wednesday, my tank was empty. A long day at work became a long night at home, secluded on my laptop, trying to avoid doing things. But as I avoided doing things, the list of what we needed to do to the house grew longer. All of our big plans gradually became overwhelming big plans and I just wanted to shut it off.

Of course, that’s not how this works. Dealing with stress isn’t ignoring the things that cause the stress, letting a mound of dirt turn into Mount Everest over time. I wish I could remember that, because I am genuinely terrible about doing the things that can actually resolve my stress. Instead, I turned inwards. I picked up Infinite Jest and buried myself in my coin collection. At work, I haven’t been able to maintain focus on anything because it feels like my attentions are being pulled in different directions. On top of all that, especially with regards to work, my anxiety has ratcheted up to pre-panic attack levels: I am experiencing physical symptoms of something being wrong, again, and I am trying to set it right. My sex drive has been shot. My heart/chest feels all sorts of screwed up. My head – don’t even get me started on how messed up my head has been feeling.

That’s the bad. That’s the ugly.

But what do I do? I could take medicine, but it seems the medicine that helps also has an adverse affect on trying to grow a family. I’m going to a cardiologist next week to check on the heart – family history concerns me. I haven’t smoked in 325 days. I haven’t had alcohol in over a week. Same with caffeine. I’m trying to do the things that should level me out. I went to my therapist and now have regularly scheduled appointments. I went yesterday and following the 45+ minutes of word vomit that I let loose, I felt better. My sleep needs to improve. I haven’t slept well in over 2 weeks, maybe longer. I feel tense right now, just typing this up and thinking about it and I can feel how it’s affecting me.

I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it. This spiral is never fun. I think I hit the bottom this past weekend at Floyd Yoga Jam. Going to Yoga Jam was meant to be a spiritual boost. However, for the most part, I felt like an anxious space cadet, feeling this impending sense of doom and did not sleep well whatsoever. There’s a rebound – I know there is because this isn’t my first trip down this crummy path. But it feels so… so far off. Several times over the past couple of days, I’ve wanted to break down and cry, but when I get to the point where I’m crying, the tears aren’t coming. It’s as though I’ve blocked myself from being able to cry. And, damn it, I really want to cry. I want to unleash wave upon wave of pent-up emotion and tension! I want to unlock this broken thing so that it might be able to repair itself! Because I know that when I am well, I am stellar. But when I am unwell, I am thoroughly un-stellar – I am a black hole. I don’t like not being stellar. That could be a point of stress, ell oh ell, but I’ve accepted that. No sense throwing even more burden on myself, right?

Sorry. Had to crack wise.

Anyway. If you’ve had an interaction with me recently, if I’ve been slow at getting back to you (if I’ve gotten back to you at all), this is what’s going on. I hope you understand. It’ll get better.



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Where do we go from here?

The last 8 months, going from immediately before Mr. Trump’s election to the Presidency to today, have seemed to have passed by in a chaotic whirlwind. The media report on horse race after horse race story, on whatever new scandal Mr. Trump has stumbled his way into. I’d like to believe that the man who has become President is smarter than the rambling, cocksure fool he appears to be, but this man seems to not know any bounds when it comes to thumbing his frustrations and national security secrets in 140-or-fewer character spurts. I’ve been hoping that at some point, I will awake from the coma I have been in for the last eight months from a traumatic brain injury and be brought back into a world where the sane and competent have the loudest voice and the most sway.

However, this fevered nightmare continues. Donald Trump is the President of the United States. Perhaps more worrying is that in the wings resides an arch-conservative Vice President, whose actions would match Mr. Trump’s rhetoric because Mr. Pence has the political wherewithal to properly manage accomplishments. I want to believe that none of this is true – that Mr. Pence isn’t the super conservative nightmare that I’ve been able to cobble together from his record, that Mr. Trump isn’t this duplicitous canker sore on the mouth of American democracy. But all evidence leads to the contrary. Mr. Trump’s America First/MAGA ploy has been exactly that – a ploy to gin up the anger of an electorate that’s been deceived time and time again. And now it has deceived itself into believing that someone who has built his empire on something as vacuous as a brand could Make America Great America, TM.

At this point, there are few things I take for granted, because every second, every day seems to be on borrowed time for us as a society. We have hired a flim-flam man to the most challenging job in a nation-state: the one to lead it. And with our flim-flam man, it certainly seems that his every act seems to build one self-serving mission upon another. And if this is true, if our flim-flam man is nothing but a sham, what do we do? Why should we have trust in each other in the political process? I don’t have answers, mostly because I am afraid of the answers.

I am afraid that the answer is that we can’t trust each other. I am afraid that the answer is that every person, to the last man, is a duplicitous actor whose motivations only serve to maximize the self, regardless of the cost to everyone else. Why else would we elect people who deny basic, foundational, and evidence-based science to be in charge of the programs that fund basic, foundational, and evidence-based science? Why would we elect people who constantly drive fear into the hearts of others for the sake of their own re-election? Why would we elect people who work tirelessly to conceal the sources of their campaign contributions so as to protect themselves from controversy? There are so many whys that need to be answered and I don’t think any of the answers will be either satisfactory or comforting.

And maybe the lack of comfort is a good thing. Maybe it’s time that we mobilize ourselves en masse to confront the issues of our time: to tackle racism, to restore wealth to communities decimated by decade upon decade upon decade of economic dispossession, to repudiate the wars that these politicians launch to line their contributors’ pockets, to restore the integrity of the American Project, to empower the working class with strong unions that represent all American workers, to bring about a living wage, to insure that people have access to health care that doesn’t cost them their rent or home, to have the so-called service class become the working class, and, in the words of the Preamble to the Constitution, to promote the general welfare.

So: where do we go from here? Let us be frank – the federal government is where go ideas go to die. The best course of action is to work within our communities to mobilize the promotion of the general welfare of the American public. There will be few grand victories, but our victory will be total if we dedicate ourselves to getting to know our neighbors, understanding their plight, and sharing in our common humanity. Our victory will be total if we share in our common victory and not pursue individual glories for the sake of an individual ego. Our victory will be total when we, in fight after fight, bring the cause of justice to our neighborhoods and give it a home with us. This is where we go from here. Do not look to Washington – they don’t give a damn. Look next door. Down the road. That is our way forward.

That is where we go.

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