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Remembering the “Lost Cause”

Recently my family stopped at the Civil War battlefield at Vicksburg, Miss., to take a walk and soak in some history. Near the monument to Louisiana’s troops stood a young boy, about 8 or 9, with his mom and dad. The boy was dressed up as a gray-clad Confederate soldier. The combination of the outfit and the Confederate flag sticker on his family’s car told me something important about this boy. It told me that he was a lot like me at that age.
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Seeing All Kids as Our Kids

I’m constantly struck by the memory of my first time in a jail. It was during a tour as a part of SPLC’s efforts to monitor the conditions of detention facilities. I recall being shocked at how young some of the people looked. When I stepped into the first cellblock, I muttered a prayer. In front of me stood rows and rows of black men. I was sick to my stomach; so many of them looked like they could be my cousins, uncles and other loved ones.