John W. Fountain
By John W. Fountain Dateline: CHIRAQ—One hundred days later, and we don't remember her name. I am sure. It is gone. Vanished
Driving into Evergreen was like driving through a cloud of smoke into the past. The roads looked strangely familiar, as the events of 1979 seemed to come back to life. There was the police station uptown where Mama, my stepfather, Net, and I had gone to get a copy of the police report.
Signs of Hope Water. H2O--two hydrogen atoms bonded to a single oxygen atom. It is the chemical compound that comprises 70
These memories help comfort me. For they are a reminder that for as long as I have life and breath, our mothers live inside of us. They are a reminder that a mother's love is eternal. And reason enough, for me, to always wear a red rose on Mother's Day.
Would someone who gave vital information to police stand more to gain, or more to lose? And if the bad guys should come for them, masked and under the cover of night, which of us could they then call? Would the cavalry arrive too late, if at all?
I am aware that some things still haven't changed; that being smart or a schoolboy still ain't cool; that rude boys and gangsters still get the girl; and that the groveling, often hard-to-understand ghetto talk still embraced by one world can cripple a child in another.
CHICAGO--There are children here, though scarred and battered. Big dreams shattered. Big-city tattered. Ghetto fractured
John Fountain poses with Muhammad Ali, a childhood hero, during a chance encounter. I am not the starry-eyed type, not one
I wonder why more brothers can't see that using these terms is just another way to justify the inhumane treatment of our sisters, daughters, mothers, girlfriends, wives.
And I am praying for you--without judgment. Believing in you, hoping for you--on the "free" side of those cold steel bars, and yet, still in the struggle.