Tag Archives: death

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother: In Memory Of…

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Admin Note: This may or may not end up being the longest VSB post in history. I won’t know until I finish. I do not intend to stop writing until I feel like I’m done. Bare with me, for I’m not exactly sure where I’m going or how I’m trying to say what I’m about to write.

I still have the message.

*****

Donny Hathaway is my favorite singer of all time. In fact, he’s one of two artists to ever bring tears to my eyes, with the other being Phyllis Hyman. It’s not lost on me that my two favorite vocalists ever both committed suicide.

But Donny Hathaway. I have all of his works. Anything he ever lent his arrangement or vocals to. I’m that big a fan. I have played “Thank You Master (For My Soul)” on repeat for hours on end. On January 13, 1979, Donny Hathaway either fell or threw himself out of a window in New York City to his death. I wouldn’t be born for another six months and somehow, even today, it still pains me that the world lost such a talent and voice.

*****

My brother and I are very different. Well, let’s start at the beginning. He’s not really my brother. We just “grew up” together. I don’t actually remember meeting him. It just seems like he was always there. One day I didn’t know him and the next day we were inseparable. This happened in high school. His mother is my mama. My parents are his parents. He took my little sister to prom and I was okay with it. He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. I love him. I’d literally do anything to make sure he was okay.

I remember once, he needed new glasses. For some odd reason, he just never was able to get medical insurance and couldn’t afford to go to the eye doctor. Well I gave him the glasses off of my face. I had contacts. I’d be okay. He needed glasses. He was happy because he could see again. We were the same age but he was my little brother. His mother always wanted me to be a positive influence on him. I knowt that he loved me to no end but I’m sure that he resented that his mother thought more of my life choices than his.

Of course, this is the same fool who bought 23″ inch rims for a 1987 Nissan Sentra. Real talk, we couldn’t actually make full turns. We had to coast into whatever direction we were trying to take. Needless to say, we never took hard rights. We always had to make a lot of left turns. Guys do really dumb stuff sometimes. But he really liked those rims. They were cool…they just didn’t fit his car.

We’d spend summers in Chattanooga, Tennessee – that’s where he was originally from – hanging with his grandmother and grandfather. They were very, very famous and important people in that area. His grandparents were revered. And they treated me like their own. When he called to tell me that his grandmother was a few days from passing in March 2010, I flew down from DC to Atlanta in the morning, drove to Chattanooga in the afternoon, then back to Atlanta to fly back to DC in the evening just so that I could pay my respects to him and his family. He was my family and his family was mine.

Nobody could have been closer to me that didn’t share actual blood. His son is my godson. There was no question about it. I’d always hear random stories about how my brother would be doing some dumb sh*t and that I needed to talk to him because he wouldn’t listen to anybody but me. In fact, his own mother would often tell me that I needed to talk to him for that reason. Not that he was a bad guy at all. To the contrary, very, very few people ever had a bad word to say about him. His heart was pure and he always wanted everybody to be happy and be alright. Because of that he’d often find himself used and end up making some bad decision because of it. Hell, he actually married the neighborhood ho. I was the best man. Nobody could talk him out of that decision….great wedding though. It was hood as hell but man was it fun. And I couldn’t have been happier to be there for him.

The goal in life was for me to make it as some hugely successful entrepreneur or something and then bring him along for the ride. That’s what big brothers do. You take care of your siblings. On one trip from Huntsville, Alabama, to Jackson, Michigan, we drove up I-65. Somewhere just south of Nashville are these two houses that sit about 300 yards apart. We’d always planned on someday buying those houses and settling down there; me with my wife and kids and him being the coolest uncle ever. He beat me to both the wife and kids (and also to the divorce and baby mama). For some reason, this dude liked to beat me to everything. It’s like his life wasn’t complete unless he tried everything once, positive or negative.

But his heart? Pure. He was the kind of guy to give his life for another.

*****

My daughter used to have an interesting array of medical issues. Nothing too serious, but when she gets sick, she gets sick. We’ve been to the hospital late at night enough times to be familiar with Children’s Hospital. She’s not sickly, just occasionally sick. But she is also a baby so things like croup turn into bigger problems so  you have to be proactive.

Around 1130pm on January 12, 2011, my daughter’s mother called me to let me know that my daughter was having trouble breathing and kept coughing which was exacerbating the problem. She said she was taking her to the ER. She picked me up on the way. I refuse to not be there if something’s going on. I know she always wants mommy, but daddy will be standing right there in case mommy needs to go to the bathroom. Forever.

We spent something like three hours at the ER. Not a bad stint considering how long you can stay there. I got home around 345am. John Q was on. I watched the rest of it. That is one deep movie. The extent for which he was willing to go to save his child’s life is always moving to me. I mean, he was willing to do whatever to save his child’s life.

I must have gone to sleep at like 430am.

At 635am, my phone rang. I recognized the area code but not the number. Not sure why but I let it ring instead of answering it. I laid back down and waited to see if there was a message. I’ve never been a stranger to random early morning phone calls from home.

The voicemail alert went off. I checked the message.

“******** this is your boy *********. ****** was in a really bad accident, man. Call me back. It’s not looking too good, I just…like…call me back…we’re all here…”

I sat up wide awake.

I still have the message.

******

My brother lived in a house in Huntsville, Alabama. I went to high school there. In this house there were several electrical issues. One of which was a broken heat unit. This was a particularly cold winter. Especially for Alabama.

At about 2am, one of two space heaters in the living room of the house caught fire. It engulfed the old house very quickly. There were five people in the house. My brother, his girlfriend and her two children, and our other boy who lived there. My brother got out with his girlfriend and one of her daughters. My boy managed to get out a window.

But one of the little girls was stuck in the living room where the space heater was. My brother, not even thinking, went directly back into the house trying to find her.

He never made it back out. He and the little girl both died in the living room of that house. The roof collapsed. The smoke enveloped. Their souls ascended.

He was out. But he thought nothing less than to go back in and save the other child because that’s what you do. I know him. I know that without hesitation he ran back in there without thinking of what might happen to him.

While I was at the ER with my daughter trying to make sure she was okay, my brother was dying in a fire some 700 miles away.

January 13, 2011.

At about 815am, I got another phone call from one of my other boys who was nearly as close to me as my brother: “P, he’s gone….he’s gone. He passed away. I have to go.”

I immediately broke down into tears. I also had no idea where to go. I’ve never felt so alone in my entire life. I just kept looking at the sky trying to find him. Or praying that I’d get a phone call that it wasn’t real. I saw my cousin get murdered. That hurt. But hearing that my brother died…that was actual pain. I can still feel it.

If you read VSB, there’s a week back in January of 2011 where Champ wrote for two weeks straight, or something like it. I was gone. I couldn’t write. I was fortunate enough to get support from those I loved and those that loved me. From both likely and unlikely sources. Sources that I never got a chance to thank for their support. I owe them that. I went home and as soon as I touched down in Alabama, I broke down into tears. I cried on the whole drive from the airport to my parent’s home. I cried on the way to my brother’s house. I cried when I saw his son. I cried and cried. I tried to keep myself together since everybody was waiting on me to get in, but I couldn’t do it. I cried when I spoke at the funeral. I cried when we interred him.

I cried.

******

I know that part of the pain of losing a loved one is the loss of future memories. I know that. I realize that. But I just feel like my brother’s time wasn’t up. Nobody who cared about people that much should go that early. He wasn’t supposed to beat me to death. He just wasn’t. At least he will always be considered a hero. He gave his life trying to save the life of somebody else. And for that I will always be able to remember him the way I always hoped everybody else would: a selfless man who cared about others.

It annoyed me reading newspapers where they said a 31-year-old man lost his life. I just felt like he’s so much more than that. Not just a man. He was a brother, a son, a father, an uncle, a great person.

Sigh.

But that’s because he matters to me.

*******

Yesterday was his birthday. August 12, 1979. It’s always hard for me because I suppose I’m still hoping that it’s not true and that I’ll call him one day and he’ll answer.

August, 12, 1979 – January 13, 2011.

******

Donny Hathaway and my brother both passed on January 13, something that dawned on me as I took the podium to speak at the funeral. Two of my favorite people passed on the same day. His family asked me to speak. That’s how close we were. Family members I didn’t even know asked me to speak at his funeral. I still speak to them now. Just like I still speak to his son. They’re my family.

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. Thank you master, for my soul.

I’ll see you when I get there.

There’s no way I can truly put into words how I feel. I can’t even fully try. I miss my brother. And the realization that this will be a permanent feeling is defeating.

I believe to my soul.

******

And…I still have the message.

RIP.

-VSB P

5 Signs That You Might Be Dating a Zombie Who Might Zombie Apocalapyse Your A**

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You’d pretty much have to live under a rock to not realize that the Zombie Apocalypse is upon us. From crazy ninjas eating homeless guys faces to random Black college students eating hearts, etc…one thing is for sure.

Black folks are TOTALLY taking over the crime market previously labeled as “Whites Only”.

Seriously, what is really going on these days. Obviously there are some mental health issues at play but do you realize HOW f*cked up you have to be in order to partake in cannibalism. In 2012? You can buy a 20-piece of chicken nuggets for like $2.99. The point is that you don’t need to eat other people. The rent may be too damn high but unhealthy foodstuffs are cheap as hell. Eating somebody’s heart or face just doesn’t seem necessary. At all. Unless you’re f*cked the f*ck up.

Moving on. Well, with this Zombie Apocalypse upon us, it is important to start looking for the signs. One day your best friend is cool as a fan, gat in hand, and then the next day this mofo is nibbling on your finger reaching for the Tabasco or Texas Pete. Now imagine if you’re out here dating in these streets!!!!! You JUST might end up dating a motherloving zombie. Now a stone cold non-killer like myself believes that Ace of Base had it right when they started sawing the signs. That’s because just like neon and STOP…signs exist.

So let’s take a look at 5 signs that the person you’re dating just might be a zombie (and thus you should probably cuz that relationship short).

1. They spend too much time examining and appreciating your physical features

One person sees appreciation, but think about it like a zombie? If I’m a zombie, I’m looking at you for the whitemeats, thighmeats, goodmeats, etc. What if I’m a fingerloving zombie? And I really admire your fingers. I’m just saying, anybody spending too much time appreciating certain features might be on that zombie sh*t.

2. They’re Boston Celtics fans

Two words: Marquise. Daniels.

3. They keep showing up announced

Aside from just being straight up stalkeresque, I feel like anybody who constantly shows up unannounced just might kill you. But since they are already f*cked up, there’s a good chance they just might try to eat your face. There could be a pun in there but I’m too lazy to find it and its 11:56pm right now and I’m not even halfway through this sh*t because I keep watching replays of the Wade missing that damn 3. Sure he had a good look and sure you can’t ask for a better shot than that, but WHY THE HELL CAN’T THE HEAT HIT FREE THROWS??

What was I talking about again? Ah yes…zombies. And dating.

4. When they write you love letters or texts – it is 2012 afterall – they tell you that they can’t picture life without you

While that absolutely sounds like the sweetest thing Lauryn Hill has ever known (SUMMER JAM…go Nas) just think about that for a second. If somebody determines that they no longer want to be with you…and you have already determined that you cannot live without that person…wouldn’t that effectively kill you? Yes. And if you are dead and come back into the game on some zombieing sh*t, wouldn’t you THEN go eat the heart and calf of the person who kilt you dead?

See also: P.M. Dawn – I’d Die Without You and Robin Thicke – Lost Without You

5. They always want to take you to Brazilian steak houses or places that serve inordinate amounts of meat

And yes, if your boo ONLY eats MeatLovers pizzas and isn’t being ironic, then there’s a good chance that you’re dating somebody who might go full zombie on you at some point. They’ve already got an affinity for meat. Or one of those places that services bacon-wrapped, pork chopped wrapped, steak with sausage balls in the middle. Yeah. that motherlover is already on that flesh sh*t. And you know what you have? Flesh. And do you know what motherlovers on that flesh sh*t do? Go zombie. Word to big bird.

Well that’s 5 signs to look out for. What else do you have? This is VERY IMPORTANT right now. With zombies out here going all hipster on us, we need all of the help we can muster. And um, what the f*ck up is up with the zombie apocalypse anyway? What do you think is really going on in these streets??

Talk to me.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. DON’T ZOMBIE ME BRO aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

Feeling Bad For Bobby, and More Thoughts About Whitney Houston’s Funeral

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1. There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to the way I react when hearing about a person dying. None whatsoever. It’s completely unpredictable, completely arbitrary, and completely dependent on… whatever the hell it’s dependent on. I have absolutely no clue, and I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. There have been times when a one paragraph long news story about some random area murder induced tears and haunted me for weeks, and other times when family members have passed and the only time I got worked up was when I forced myself to get worked up because I felt bad that I hadn’t.

This “reaction unpredictability” extends to celebrities as well. I felt nothing when Michael Jackson — a person who I was a huge fan of — died, but the deaths of Amy Winehouse — a person I was “eh” about — and Patrice O’Neal still resonate with me. I still can’t listen to “Rehab” or watch “Elephant in The Room” without getting chills.

Knowing how unpredictable I can be about this should make me immune to surprise. I mean, If I’m capable of any reaction, there shouldn’t be a reaction that surprises me. Despite this, I was (and still am) surprised at how affected I was by the news of Whitney Houston’s death (When first clicking the TMZ link to the news of her death, I literally stared at my monitor with my mouth agape for two minutes and could see my heart beating through my shirt) and how interested I was in the goings-on (and the public’s feelings about the goings-on) of her funeral.

Although I wasn’t able to catch the first hour and a half or so (I started watching when Stevie Wonder was singing), I sat there captivated like I was watching the 4th quarter of game seven of the NBA finals. And, as if this captivation wasn’t enough, I logged on to Twitter and Facebook to basically give myself a sensory overload.

I don’t know what any of this means, or why I even felt the need to share it. I don’t know. I do know that it’s been (over) a week and I’m still surprised that I still don’t feel any different.

2. There have been myriad different accounts of the events that led to Bobby Brown leaving (or getting kicked out of) Whitney’s funeral, so I won’t go into any of them. I will say, though, that I feel worse for him than for anyone else who was in Whitney’s life. Losing your ex-wife (a woman I’m sure he still loved and may have still been in love with) is bad enough, but being the popular scapegoat for the decades-long spiral leading to her early death has to be a bitch of a burden to carry. History will not look kindly on him. Regardless of what he does for the rest of his life, his primary legacy will be that he, to put it bluntly, killed Whitney Houston.

Now, whether this legacy is actually fair is another question. We assume that Bobby was the bad influence, but while Whitney was America’s Sweetheart, she wasn’t exactly an angel herself. Also, as influential as Clive Davis was reported to be in her life, who’s to say that he didn’t have a hand in her downfall?

Obviously, this is all speculation. None of us know exactly what led to Whitney’s substance abuse problems. And, since none of us know, perhaps we should place a collective moratorium on “Blame Bobby.”

3. I happened to be at my parent’s house when the funeral was being aired. When R.Kelly came to the podium, all three of us said “Wait. Is that R.Kelly???” at the exact same time. No bullsh*t.

And (in my best Forrest Gump voice), “That’s all I’m going to say about that.”

4. I know many people had an issue with some of the “So, America, make sure you’re recording so you can see how these exotic-ass Negros celebrate the dead” -ey comments from some of the non-black members of the news media covering the event. In particular, Piers Morgan sounded like he was covering at an event at Jurassic Park.

I didn’t have a problem with this, though. I mean, aside from random Nike commercials and Tyler Perry movies (which white people don’t watch anyway), this probably was the first time many of them had seen a homegoing at a black baptist church, and I think most of the non-white reporters found the proper mix of reverence, respect, and curiosity.

Also, aside from the celebrities involved, Whitney’s ceremony wasn’t all that atypical. Seriously, if you substituted “random white co-worker who seems out of place but makes up for it with a poignant speech” for “Kevin Costner,” “aunt who does her thing on the organ even though she tends to forget words to certain songs” for “Stevie Wonder,” and “neighborhood family who no one wants to fight because there’s like 25737848 of those motherf*ckers and you know if you fight one, you’ll have to fight them all” for “The Winans,” this funeral was probably exactly like any other baptist funeral any one reading this has ever been to.

5. I’m not sure if the fact that I simultaneously ”experienced” the funeral with over a thousand others on Twitter — all with their own running commentary about the event — was a good or a bad thing. Actually, I’m pretty certain it’s neither. It’s not disrespectful or distant or progressive or indicative of anything, either. It just is. That’s just the way we deal with things today. While other generations had their own forms of collective consumption, we just do it in real time.

6. So, ever since a certain post I wrote a few weeks ago, I’ve been more willing to let certain people take a look at articles I write before I submit them, just in case they pick up on something that I may have missed. Don’t fret. You’re not going to get a neutered Champ or anything. This is something I’ve always done. Just do it a little more often now.

Anyway, last Friday, I let one of these friends see an article I wrote for Ebony about Chris Brown. That article contained a somewhat off-color joke about Tyler Perry. Her response:

“I dont usually discourage Tyler Perry jabs, but this m**therf**er just flew Whitney Houston’s body to her family in his private jet. HE ALWAYS DOES THIS SH*T. Like, whenever I want to take a shot at him, he adopts some orphan or saves a kitten or some sh*t and makes me feel bad afterwards. Anyway, you should probably leave that out.”

I (reluctantly) listened.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”) 

***Oh, check out the Chris Brown piece I just referenced — “The (Biggest) Problem with Chris Brown isn’t Chris Brown” — if you get a chance. (#teambreezy, beware)***

Also, don’t forget about the VSB/Urban Cusp discussion on Black Identity & Culture in Mass Media panel coming up on Wednesday, February 22, 2012 from 6-8PM at the Washington Post Buildling. It’s going to be a dope conversation, I promise. Plus you can hang with Panama Jackson and throw things at people. It’s free and food will be provided. Not like half chickens or nothing, but finger foods and whatnot. See you there. Peep the flyer below.

And I Will Always Love Whitney.

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August 9, 1963 - February 11, 2012. Gone too soon.

Whitney Houston is gone.

I don’t even know how else to start this off. The news that Whitney Houston died at the young age of 48 (!!!!!!) caught me so off guard that when the first person called to tell me, I responded so non-chalantly that I caught myself by surprise. I was just like, “that’s sad.”

It wasn’t because it didn’t matter. It’s because it just didn’t seem real at all. Not Whitney. Micheal? Yeah. We were all saddened and moved but it wasn’t a total surprise to anybody. Whitney was also on some sort of that stuff – and quite famously – and yet it just didn’t seem like she’d pass…so soon (again…48!!!!). We still don’t know what happened but no illegal drugs were found in the room and there were no signs of foul play. It was just…her time.

(Early reports suggest that she may have drowned. That is tragic beyond belief if its true. EDIT: 10AM – Turns out she didn’t drown, but a lethal mix of prescription drugs and alcohol might have killed her long before she had time to drown. There wasn’t enough water in her lungs to suggest she drowned.)

And that’s hard to deal with. I’ve come to grips with the fact that I have no power of when my time on this planet will end. It’s bigger than I am. But the death of larger than life people like Whitney Houston still seems surreal and doesn’t make sense to me. I always felt like she had another comeback in her. Her voice, while not what it used to be, was still leagues better than 98 percent of the population.

That voice. My God. There have been a few people who I’ve felt were given a truly God given gift and Whitney was one of them. Her voice was so strong, so pure, and so beautiful that her heyday was nearly 25 years ago and we are STILL attached to those very songs. Just like Michael. While nobody will ever touch what Michael Jackson did, Whitney was as pretty high up on the short of list of individuals who held that type of superstardom purely for their talents.

I’m a grown ass man and I still sing along to “I’m Every Woman”. And who HASN’T screwed up “Greatest Love of All” at karaoke or in their car. And think, that song is immortal ANYWAY because of Coming To America. And yes, “How Will I Know” if he really loves me. I don’t know…So many songs. So many great moments. And no, my name is not Susan, which could be why people never watch what they say. I really think I could write an entire post based on her songs.

I think, much like Michael, the true test of what Whitney Houston meant to America, and particularly Black America is how much of our experiences she’s tied to. If you grew up in the 80s then Whitney was absolutely apart of your life. I remember the long ass road trips with my Black man from Alabama ass father blasting the I’m Your Baby Tonight album. My father used to ask my mother to put Whitney Houston (and later Mariah Carey) under the Christmas tree for him every year. Every. Year. My daddy wasn’t sh*t.

And don’t even get me started on the Waiting To Exhale soundtrack. I still bump that (real talk). There’s an odd connection we all feel in the Black community (and maybe white artists do too) to our artists, especially the larger than life ones. Maybe it’s because music is the one escape most of us have in a life filled with so much struggle. Artists like Whitney blew the lid off what we could achieve and what was expected and even though she sang pop music, she sang it in a way that wasn’t selling out. You can’t fake a voice like that and there’s no way to sell out with an instrument like that.

Whitney Houston was family. Hell, she still is family. She’s so much family that many of us are ACTUALLY really concerned about Bobbi Kristina…and Bobby Brown. And I’m not even sure Whitney liked him anymore. But this is what happens when family passes. And there’s a certain sadness that will persist for a while. She was an icon. She was a legend. And its hard to believe that she’s gone. But she’s one of those that will live forever. She has no choice. She made too much of an impact while she was here. There are very few artists today who aren’t influenced by her.

Plus, she has one of the most iconic “big leagues” of all time in her remake of “I Will Always Love You”. It’s a perfect rendition. With a perfect voice.

And yes, the Whitney tribute was short. And yes, we all wanted more. Did Whitney get shortchanged? Possibly.

But that’s second to the fact that the voice is gone.

I’m all over the place here, so I’ll just end this here:

Whitney, I wish to you joy, and happiness…but above all this, I wish you love.

We love you. And miss you. RIP.

-VSB P

Troy Davis, Reasonable Doubt and the Lack of Justice

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RIP Troy Davis. September 21, 2011 - 1108PM

God bless the dead.

There’s a certain perverse curiousity about the last minutes of a person’s life. I’ve had the misfortune of personally witnessing the last moments of somebody’s life and since that time I’ve often recounted those final hours, minutes, and seconds over and over again.

As of the beginning of this writing, Troy Anthony Davis, is counting down the final minutes of his life. By the time I’m finished, he’ll be dead. And I find myself imaging what that’s like. I can’t help it. Knowing your end is near and knowing the exact time you will move on is a punishment no person should know. Especially this person because based on every recount and recollection of this case, there is absolutely no reason that this man’s life should be history.

None.

It sickens me. It saddens me. I recognize that when a situation touches you that you’re more likely to think irrationally. But because of this case, I’m completely opposed to the death penalty. Since the Innocence Project has come to fruition and proven how many people were falsely convicted (273) I have come to not only not believe in the justice system, I’m downright afraid of it. I’ve always thought that it didn’t have my best interests in mind for racial reasons. But at this point, Troy Davis’s case proves that no matter what evidence you do or don’t have, once somebody decides you are guilty, well you’re guilty.

The State of Georgia decided that this man was supposed to die for a crime for which his guilt was in complete question, even though people from the prison system and politicians who support the death penalty in the state have asked for clemency.

I feel sick. I’ve shed a tear behind this man I don’t know and it’s because of just how unfair it seems. Every person behind bars isn’t innocent. And I have no idea if Troy Davis is either. But as the twitter hashtags and signs and slogans have indicated, there’s too much doubt about this guilt. Try the man again. Let him stay in jail…alive, while we take another crack at it. But to actually kill somebody, especially in this circumstance is not what even the most rightwing, death penalty advocate would want. Nobody ever wants to kill the wrong person for justice.

I don’t know how much information the individuals who have to administer the lethal injection have about the case or how they feel but I truly feel sorry for any prison staffer who has to partake in this execution.

And to be fair, let me say I truly feel for the family of the slain police officer. At the end of the day, they lost a father who was really doing nothing more than being a good guy and doing his job while he was off duty. A crime was committed and the responsible person should be paying the price. I sympathize with their plight because the entire case has flipped into not being about the slain officer. But if potentially killing the wrong man is more important than getting actual justice then we’re all worse off. Including the family of the slain officer. Ironic since the police officer’s job was to seek justice.

1108pm. The moment when every statement about our country’s belief in truth, justice, and the American way was proven to be bullshit.

The thing is, as a Black man I never believed in it anyway. And yet I’m still disappointed. I still WANT to believe that all the evidence in the world would keep me alive. What I hope more is that the memory of Troy Davis causes people to continue to care and make some sort of difference. In fact, what concerns me most is that our general short memory doesn’t make this week the last time we hear about Troy Davis. We tend to care while something seems to matter and then its on to the next thing. But this case is bigger than Troy Davis which I think was evidenced by the huge amount of attention this case drew. I hope somehow it stays that way, though my optimism has short legs.

God bless the dead.

RIP Troy Davis.

RIP justice…again.

How a man can be killed even though nobody is positive he did it, I’ll never know. But I’m also not that flawed. I hope this is a wake up call to somebody. I hope.

What are your thoughts? Please, share it all.

-PANAMA JACKSON