Shannon, The Father

Picture courtesy of the blog, https://windupmyskirt.wordpress.com

Tonight, I’m going to make this short.  Not because I don’t have a lot to say, but because I do and I don’t that message getting lost in a lot of needless rhetoric.

My most endearing memory of my nephew, Shannon, is not that of the drug pusher or the gangbanger, but of the father that he was.

I remember on warm summer nights he would come up the back stairs, carrying his young son in his arms and knock on my door and ask, “Hey Auntie Sis, you got any juice boxes?”   My usual answer was yes.  Because I always bought extra for him.

Shannon loved his son and he showed it as often as he could.  Whenever, he was at home, he carried that child around with him everywhere.  

Now, on this warm summer’s night, I miss the sound of his footsteps coming up the back stairs knowing that in two weeks his son will start another year of school without his father.  I also, think of all the things Shannon has missed –  his son’s kindergarten graduation, his son’s first day of regular school, report cards, parent/teacher meetings, watching his son play ball, taking his son to the park, eating ice cream cones, hot dogs, and swimming.

By the time Shannon gets out of prison, his son will be a grown man approaching his 40th birthday.

 A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth

By
Eliza D. Ankum

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Anita Alvarez

Anita Alvarez Cook County State’s attorney

Miss Alvarez, about a year or so ago, you visited my work location and walked past me and casually asked me if I was OK. I remember answering yes.

At the time, I assumed you didn’t think I knew who you were, but I did. However, anger prevented me from elaborating on why I answered yes. Below is the reason why I said yes.

My twenty-three year old self needed rescuing when there was the possibility of having a life

My thirty-three year old self needed rescuing when there was the possibility of having a life

My forty-three year old self needed rescuing when there was the possibility of having a life

But, as The Stalkers will atest

My fifty-three year old self woke up and realized I had been abandoned by the State of Illinois while it chased after what it saw as something more valuable.

so, My sixty-three year old self has made a life in the midst of the storm as I’ve come to realize that I am nothing more than a replaceable clog.

Maybe, if I could read minds, perhaps I might have been rescued sooner as I would have had some value to the State.

But let me say this, sometimes you don’t have to read minds to get the message.

Black lives do matter.

https://mystalkingblog.wordpress.com

By
Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
Flight 404
Ruby Sanders
STALKED! By Voices
OneThreeThirteen – Master Of The Day Of Judgment
Dancing With The Fat Woman
And coming soon Jared Anderson