“All your buried corpses now begin to speak.” – James Baldwin
After the murder of George Floyd by Derek Chauvin, which left me depressed, enraged, and disappointed about the condition of race in the United States, a White male actor from a Los Angeles theatre excoriated me on social media for his view of my belief that the long, sadistically violent history of anti-Blackness was related to the current civil unrest. Self-righteously fuming and accusing me of celebrating the civil unrest (which he termed merely as “looting”), he and his allies sought to intimidate me via social media stalking.
In effect, they practiced violence – a flamboyant emotional violence – against me. Though not nearly the same, it was similar to that practiced against George Floyd, Breanna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Philando Castille, Trayvon Martin, Atatiana Jefferson, Aura Rosser, Stephon Clark, Botham Jean, Alton Sterling, Michelle Cusseaux, Freddie Gray, Janisha Fonville, Eric Garner, Akai Gurley, Gabriella Nevarez, Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Tanisha Anderson, Ahmaud Arbery, Raymond Jackson, and countless others, often at the hands of police, often against children, sometimes murder, sometimes assault, sometimes psychological violence. As a mixed race Asian, some of these incidents were complicated by the fact that they were trans-racial (Akai Gurley was murdered by gunshot by an Asian American, Peter Liang, and George Floyd’s murder occurred with the assistance of Asian American Tou Thao). Let me be crystal clear: in no way do I compare emotional violence to the violence of murder, but all violence is wounding. If you practice it, stop (and apologize to those you have hurt or tried to damage). If someone has practiced it against you, name them, whether in your prayers or on a billboard.
So, am I intimidated? Browbeaten? Hardly. Not even by the skin of your teeth.
Annoyed and pestered are better descriptions of how I feel about the White actor’s social media prowling and emotional violence. So, I left a few virtual cities for a while. There are more interesting places to visit. As a cultural responder, I have a lot of writing to do, so that is what I am doing – writing.
I think of social media sites as virtual cities. I am not a permanent resident of any of them. I visit them; sometimes, I stay longer than other times; sometimes, I merely pass through. I am not much for traveling, although my life’s journey indeed has taken me to many countries, broadening and deepening my understanding of the human condition. Generally, people visit places for pleasure or to commune with someone/something. Very little of that was present in the virtual cities I was visiting, so I exited. I applauded that many people of color spoke out about anti-Blackness, but I was extremely disappointed in the fact that so many other people of color, women, and other allies were radio-silent – I mean RADIO-SILENT. They said nothing to support those who spoke out, which was shameful and disheartening. They all should have been first responders. To those of you who were, I celebrate your courage and candidness.
I have spent the last two weeks thinking about the fire in which we are all standing. The bill is long overdue and it appears that this society does not have the resources to make payment.
I have read things, watched things, listened, and reflected. The voices that I find most illuminating are from the past, such as from James Baldwin. I am not going to argue whether Baldwin, Martin Luther King, Jr., or Malcolm X were or were not the right advocates for anti-Blackness. I am not going to argue what anybody perceives to be their merits or shortcomings. I also am not going to worry about whether anybody thinks I am Asian enough, Black enough, Latina enough, Native American enough, woman enough, or human enough to reflect at all. If you oppose my reflections, stop reading here (or perhaps you never started reading this in the first place [I see you]).
Culturally, my Japanese, Asian, and Black ethnicities have been foregrounded over my Latin and Native American roots in the way I move through the world (monoracial measurement and perceptions be damned), but my blood is my blood and I embrace it all – all my cultures and people – confidently and happily; as well as the additional cultures brought into my world by those who love my family: Vietnamese, Vietnamese American, Chinese American, Chinese, Taiwanese, Ghanaian, Nigerian, Ethiopian, Italian, Hawaiian, Scottish, Korean, Filipino, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Indian, Syrian, British, Irish, German, Brazilian, Argentinian. Yes. We are blessed.
There are no pictures in these reflections, except for one, also historical – but it is a telling, literal portrait of figurative anti-Blackness that persists. As for a need to see other pictures, watch the video of Derek Chauvin murdering George Floyd or the video of George Zimmerman walking away without so much as a slap on his hand after murdering Trayvon Martin.
What does it mean to breathe?
So many US citizens can relate to violence and hatred; it comes in numerous flavors: anti-Asian, anti-LGBTQ, anti-Semitic, anti-woman, hetero-phobic, anti-mixed race, anti-age, religious strife, strife over ability levels, class strife, etc. One Asian American described an anti-Asian, COVID-19 experience with a White female as his “breathing while Asian” (2) moment.
But, let’s face it, as devastatingly, inhumanly ugly as those incidents are, they are “it’s hard to breathe” moments, not “I can’t breathe” moments. Granted, when such violence escalates to murder, yes, they are definitely, painfully “I can’t breathe” moments. But let’s be gut-wrenchingly honest about this and put away insulting, simplistic tools of measurement.
If one of us is having difficulty breathing or if someone cannot breathe by any means, then we had all better grab our oxygen masks and put them on. Akin to the oxygen masks in airplanes, put yours on first and then your child’s. If someone is making it hard to breathe or if you are making it hard for someone else to breathe, you must learn to breathe yourself and then help your children breathe. If you are not breathing well or causing someone else not to breathe well, your children will learn from your example – and I mean White children, too
Let me tell you about not being able to breathe well as one strives to raise children in the US.
In 1990 at The First School, a westside Los Angeles pre-school, a White girl named Daisy, age three, adored my four-year-old son and insisted on playing house with him. Then she saw me retrieving him from school one day and asked, “Is that your nanny?” When he explained I was his mother, his biological mother, Daisy was troubled. The next day, my son relayed to me that Daisy had told him she could not play with him anymore because she was White and he was not. When I discussed the occurrence with Daisy’s mother, a Santa Monica White progressive, she said, miffed that I was asking, “I don’t know where she got that from.” It is said that children develop racial views at the ages of three of four. At three, Daisy’s racism had one primary source: her parents. At Wildwood School, another progressive westside Los Angeles school, when my son began attending there at age five, three White boys cornered him in the bathroom, whipped out their penises, and urinated on him. When I discussed the matter with the teacher, Nancy Nedell, she told me that the three boys came from wonderful families and that it was impossible for them to have done what I described. That night, I washed the wonderful boys’ urine from my son’s pants.
Your children will learn from your example. They will.
Those who have tried to intimidate me in my life have sought not only to terrorize me, but to destroy my life as I know it — my father, my mother, my siblings, my children, my residence, my career, and my health. Speaking individually, I can count those people on seven fingers: a Latino gay male, a White-passing mixed race Latina, a White Jewish male, an African American male, a White gay male, a White straight male, and a White straight female. Broadly speaking, predominantly White institutions (what university students call PWIs) have tolerated me, but, as I began to achieve academically and creatively, figurative lynchings sometimes ensued. Of course, I was cast as the antagonist in these figurative lynchings. As Baldwin says, the US has a habit of making legends out of massacres. You all know well the legend as it presents itself; I am not part of that narrative.
A metaphorical colored entrance materialized and, often, there was no entrance at all; buildings were sealed – Blackness was the virus that non-Black people did not want to catch. Often these invisible, but very sturdily built barriers were erected by White people, but sometimes they were erected by people of color. As someone who was reared by a Japanese immigrant and knows my Japanese culture is more Asian than any Asian American culture in this country, I am sad to say that often these barriers were erected by Asian Americans who were happy to have mixed race Asians that were mixed with White in their midst, but not mixed race Asians who were mixed with Black (in the mixed race Asian population, it, after all, is not enough to say “mixed race Asian”; there, too, color is happily brought into play with terms such as Blackanese, without the presence of any correlating terms such as Whitanese, Latanese, or Natanese; or the term Blasian [which many use and with which I have no issue, but then where are the correlating terms of Whasian, Lasian, and Nasian – or is it only Black difference that must be singled out?]).
Of course, in environments of invisible impediments, nothing was said. Everybody was excruciatingly polite, most of the time, but, in their actions, I saw the anti-Blackness (I see you). Because my Asian ethnicity is, to most US citizens (especially those who have not traveled to non-tourist regions of Asian nations) an invisible ethnicity, I have had a unique vantage point of observing anti-Blackness in Asia and Asian America. Similarly, my invisible Asian ethnicity has allowed me to observe views about Asians and Asian Americans within Blackness. Moreover, the fact I am mixed race has been a reason used by Asians, Asian Americans, and African Americans to tell me that I do not really get it – “It’s a Black thing,” “It’s an Asian thing.” Right. White people often mis-race me and ask Asian Americans (who generally are Americans with distant Asian ancestry) or White mixed race Asians (Whitanese or Whasians) about any aspects of Asian culture. Even if they learn I am also Japanese, far be it from them to deign to ask me about Japanese culture. After all, how could I possibly know or understand when my Japanese blood is mixed with — egads! — Blackness? If you mix Black blood with Asian blood, the Asian blood dries up and blows away, right? Right?! Nani? WHUT? (Insert laughing smiley face here.)
Last week, a Black female told me I cannot possibly understand the George Floyd murder and the civil unrest in its wake because I am mixed race. (Insert another laughing smiley face here.) I get anti-Blackness – it has touched my family in more ways than one; it has touched me directly at restaurants, stores including Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods, nail salons, cinemas, theatres, universities, bricks thrown at me while driving, and even while walking home being harassed by the Beverly Hills Police Department (the cop, Joseph Bohr, was described by the BHPD as a “stellar” officer and, of course, he went unreprimanded for his racist behavior).
So, yes, I have very specific knowledge of anti-Blackness in the US, but I think we all need to face the fact that, at the end of the day, this is a HUMAN issue. If every human being does not do something about this beyond it being the topic of the day, the fire will burn so hot it will weaken the entire nation. The murder of unarmed Black people is born out of an unquenchable thirst for domination and suppression, but Black people are also HUMAN and the sooner all of us understand that and move forward with that thirst behind us, the better off we will be and so will our children – again, yes, I am talking about White children, too.
And the beat goes on and on and on
What is quite haunting about words from the past is that they seem to be just as appropriate for today’s fire.
I am glad to have those words because anti-Black micro- and macro-aggressions abound, and often I experience racial fatigue.
At Deluxe Nail Bar and Spa in Santa Monica, a manicurist told another manicurist that she hated helping Black customers because she had to touch their hands and feet. Then she and three other Asian women gathered around a gloating White male customer as they caressed his hands and feet and generally fawned over him. At Toe Heaven, another Santa Monica spa, I waited an hour (with a reservation) while the Asian manager served White customers without reservations who came in after me. When I questioned this behavior, she told me to leave. These people figuratively have put themselves on fire.
In the 1960s, critics of Martin Luther King, Jr., called his protests untimely and unwise, and blamed what they termed as “outside agitators” as being responsible for “looting.” (Sound familiar?) Dr. King emphasized that we are all in this together: “We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny,” he said. “Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly… Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness…” (4)
The civil unrest is galvanized by many things that I am not going to list here because I am addressing but just one dimension of that galvanization. The Black condition in the US is a condition of despair. An Asian professor at the University of Southern California recently claimed, “White is a color, too!” Yes, technically speaking it is, but we are not talking about crayons; we are talking about the construction of race. In that vein, I turn to Baldwin’s wisdom for clarity: “White… is not a color—it’s an attitude. You’re as white as you think you are. It’s your choice.” With regards to Blackness, he and I share the same view. Baldwin stated (in 1968) when Esquire asked him if “black is a state of mind,” “No, black is a condition.” (5)
Regarding what the media terms as “looting,” Baldwin saw this, as do I, as civil unrest that cannot be disconnected from anti-Blackness. The violence of civic and police brutality against Black people, what Baldwin termed as, “the cultivation in this country of ignorance,” instigates more violence.
Baldwin noted that the “American public concludes that these savages are trying to steal everything from us. And no one has seriously tried to get where the trouble is. After all, you’re accusing a captive population who has been robbed of everything of looting. I think it’s obscene.”
I think it is painfully ironic. It makes me think of affluent US institutions that seem to feel their success is the result of their own hard work. However, many of them benefited from over 200 years of free, Black slave labor. If I was able to have 200 years of free labor, I would consider that quite an advantage, especially if I did not have to give any of those “free” workers forty acres and a mule when they stopped providing labor at no charge.
When I am working on a dramatic writing project, speaking with family, speaking with friends and good colleagues, or playing with my pets, I feel hopeful about humanity. When I am not, I feel less hopeful. The fire is so hot. The moment I think I can step out of it and cool my feet, I realize I cannot. Any control I believe I can exercise quickly is thwarted by the flames fanned by society. Baldwin’s writings renew in me a sense of hope, something that he possessed a great deal of. In reading his words, I realize I HAVE to be in the fire. I see you. I have to see myself. I have to see the fire. I have to see the people who are having trouble breathing. I have to see the people who cannot breathe at all. I have to see the people who turn their backs and seem to be breathing just fine (perhaps even better than they did before May 25).
For these reasons, I have no choice but to remain in the fire; it is not going away. It is burning me and you. It is burning our children – again, including White children. Baldwin stated, “If you don’t look at it, you can’t change it. If we don’t change it, we’re going to die… every single one of us.” (7)
Every single one of us.
Can you make rent?
Baldwin spoke of the accumulation of the bill that is going to be very hard to pay. The bill was due long ago and what he said over five decades ago rings true today.
The bill is due “for you and your children, and… all over the world,” he stated. As I agree, he pointed out that this “bill” is not a Black problem, but a human problem. “It’s a matter of whether or not you want to live. And you may think that my death… will save you, but it won’t… All that can save you now is your confrontation with your own history…which is not your past, but your present.”(8)
My father was born in 1916 and died in 1969 at the age of fifty-three. In re-reading Baldwin, I thought of my father, who went to the Pacific theatre of war during World War II and returned to the US to be treated with undignified racism, as undignified as things he had experienced before the war, including seeing his uncle hanging from a tree, having been lynched for racist sport by a crowd of White men. Baldwin spoke of the Black US soldier:
“You must put yourself in the skin of a man who is wearing the uniform of his country, is a candidate for death in its defense, and who is called a ‘nigger’ by his comrades-in-arms and his officers…” stated Baldwin. He spoke about how White US racism infiltrated the ranks of the US military forces in other countries. Indeed, my parents told me that White US soldiers in Japan told Japanese women to be careful of Black soldiers, that they were demons whose tails rolled out of their buttocks at midnight. “You must consider what happens to this citizen, after all he has endured…” Baldwin said. “And all this is happening in the richest and freest country in the world, and in the middle of the twentieth century.”(9)
And in the twenty-first century.
What can we do, what can we do, what can we do… many ask. As a cultural responder, I must respond. As a person of African ancestry, there is much I cannot do; it is time for the flame fanners to sort this out.
The Asian American resistance
Poet and activist Ed Bok Lee, a resident of Minneapolis-St. Paul, US, told National Public Radio (NPR) that it is hard for Asian Americans to face the reality of the video revealing the murder of George Floyd, particularly given the aiding of that murder by Asian American Thao.
Many Asian Americans have denounced the George Floyd murder, but there are also dissenting voices of anti-Blackness. Lee likened the current civil unrest to the conflicts between Blacks and Korean Americans in the wake of the beating of Rodney King by White cops in the early 1990s. Confronting Asian-ness and Blackness is nothing new to me. It is my essence and I know both worlds can come together harmoniously.
As a mixed race Asian, I have enjoyed the embrace of Asian America and different Asian nations, but also have confronted toxic anti-Blackness in both populations – and, as noted, in the mixed race Asian population. While I have observed sociopolitical consciousness and organic ally-ship in those arenas, I also have witnessed (time to be candid – I see you) a desire to be a part of the attitude of Whiteness.
Lee declared it is a “moment of reflection” for Asian Americans.
“If you are Asian American and… anti-black,” Lee declared, “it’s probably because you see black people through a white hegemonic lens of racism, colonial-style racism.”(10)
The segregated water fountains – for whites, for coloreds – that my cousin recalls from her childhood and the colored entrances to restaurants, theatres, cinemas, and other venues are a thing of the past. But only physically.
Today, those pernicious barriers still exist. They are invisible and we are told not to address them in professional discourse, but those of us who are visibly people of color know they are there. Today, I am thinking about doors closed to Black people because, in all other communities, anti-Blackness exists. Unfortunately, it exists in other communities of color and among non-mainstream individuals who decry the discrimination they face, but are not as forthcoming about anti-Blackness in general or anti-Blackness within their own ranks. Absolutely, there are impediments they must confront and usually undeservedly so, but members of their communities consciously or subconsciously practice anti-Blackness, dividing ranks, weakening unities.
Theatres and Universities: also in the fire
This brings me to two communities in which I exist professionally: theatre (arts and entertainment in general because I write in multiple genres) and academia.
Recently, I have been privy to students expressing their concerns about their educations. Many of them include this statement in their commentary, “I don’t care if you think I’m angry, because I am.” Their frankness and honesty is refreshing and humbling. They talk about the Euro-centric nature of education, how often they are the only person of color in their classes, and how White professors grade down people of color who speak out. A White male student said he feared standing up for people of color in his classes because he was sure he, too, would be graded down for being an ally. As a faculty member, I have experienced anti-Blackness in unsettling ways. In classrooms, White students have questioned my presence as a legitimate faculty member because I do not fit their central casting ideas of what a college professor should look like. Walking on campus last spring, I overheard a group of White male faculty members talking about Blackness. One of them stated, “I guess our people are no longer important because our ancestors didn’t come from Africa.” Twice, once in a predominantly White setting and once in an Asian American setting, I was presumed to be lost because I was not perceived as belonging to the community that was gathering. When I expressed concerns about anti-Blackness to individuals tasked with dealing with equity, diversity, and inclusion, they ignored my commentary and did not follow up with me. At a presidential party before a football game in the fall of 2019, a White male professor walked up to me and asked, “How did you sneak in here?” I looked around and realized that, except for the service staff, I was the only person of African descent in the room.
The fire is very hot in these quarters. Soon, we will all feel the flames. I have been feeling them for some time.
“All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women nearly players…” – William Shakespeare in “As You Like It”
It is also hot in the performing arts.
Recently, a collective of Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC) theatremakers created an organization and wrote a letter of testimony titled, “We See You, White American Theater.” The address in the letter’s greeting was “Dear White American Theater.” The letter in its entirety can be read at this link: https://www.weseeyouwat.com/. The letter sought to expose the “indignities and racism that BIPOC, and in particular Black theatremakers, face on a day-to-day basis in the theater industry.”(11)
Something that struck me in the letter (I was not asked to sign it and I see why that is so, too, but I later signed a petition) was the idea of what is seen and unseen. “We see you,” the letter states. “We have always seen you. We have watched you pretend not to see us…. We have watched you program play after play, written, directed, cast, choreographed, designed… dramaturged and produced by your rosters of white theatremakers… while relegating a token, if any, slot for a BIPOC play.”
The letter reminded me of something a BIPOC artistic director of a regional theatre once shared. With bitter but resigned regret, he told me that regional theatres in the US would only produce one play by a woman or person of color every seven or so years. That meant, he explained, that, for example, an Asian American play could be produced every seven years while, in the interim years, other groups of color and women’s plays would have to be presented. As I considered those numbers, I realized the truth of the US theatre, a truth that has been around for decades and that is addressed in the BIPOC letter. If we are not produced by our buddies, a system by which some BIPOC theatremakers have built their entire careers, then we are forced to throw our aesthetic up against a wall and hope it sticks. Or write in a cage. (The cage is now open; for some of us, we persevere with the mindset that it always has been.)
I am often asked why I write the plays I write. Who is going to produce them? people ask me. Once a casting director at The Mark Taper Forum said to me, “Velina, why do you write these plays with these kinds of people in it? How do you expect me to cast them?” I have been fortunate that my plays have been produced by many. Often, ironically enough, these producers are PWIs and not ethnic theatres. Ethnic theatres, with sometimes astonishing fervor quietly tucked away in public personas of being champions of racial diversity, have created those aforementioned figurative barriers for me because neither me nor my narratives were Asian enough or Black enough. Putting an Asian, Asian American, or Black actor on stage once in a while was one thing, but an Asian or Black narrative? No. A mixed race narrative that included Blackness? No. (Maybe now, for a quick minute.)
Even with PWI production, however, I sometimes feel like a second-class citizen privileged to be welcomed into the Big House. Sometimes it feels like the Kansas tourism motif: please visit, patronize our businesses, but then move on. Finding community in theatre can be challenging. Today, I have had the good fortune of working with theatres such as Playwrights’ Arena and Hero Theatre that put their money where their beautiful mouths are with regards to presenting BIPOC narratives and hiring BIPOC theatremakers. In addition, PWIs and non-BIPOC theatremakers such as Los Angeles Opera, a New York producer I am working with, and a heavenly handful of directors, collaborate with me on my own literary merits. It is nice to be thought of as human.
Largely however, I know I am in the fire alone. My multi-ethnic, multi-racial, multi-cultural, trans-national aesthetic will not be defended by most and, obviously, I am not — and cannot — be hindered by that.
For four decades, I have been cultivating it and creating out of it, and I persevere. (The new “anti” I have discovered as I get older is ageism. Now, besides multiple colors and cultures, I see the many people who believe that, after fifty, an artist ought to just shut up. Not happening here.)
For most of her career, novelist Toni Morrison wrote about racial prejudice in the US. She discussed the fact that race is a construction; it is something made in America. She said that those who practice it are “bereft, there is something distorted about the psyche.”(12) When I think about Chauvin pressing his knee against the neck of George Floyd for almost nine minutes, I concurrently think about Toni Morrison’s words.
We are here. We have eyes and ears. We definitely see you. We hear you, too. Be an example, not an excuse, for your children and for generations to come. For they will see you, too. Sooner or later, they will truly see you. As Baldwin suggested, how do you want to live?
(1) Blakemore, Erin. “The Story Behind the Famous Little Rock Nine ‘Scream Image’: It didn’t end when Central High School was integrated.” Web. www.history.com, 1 Sep 2017, updated 9 Jun 2020. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.history.com/news/the-story-behind-the-famous-little-rock-nine-scream-image.
(2) Loffman, Matt. “Asian Americans describe ‘gut punch’ of racist attacks during coronavirus pandemic,” PBS, 7 Apr 2020. Web. www.pbs.org. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.pbs.org/newshour/nation/asian-americans-describe-gut-punch-of-racist-attacks-during-coronavirus-pandemic.
(3) Blakemore, Erin. “The Story Behind the Famous Little Rock Nine ‘Scream Image’: It didn’t end when Central High School was integrated.” Web. www.history.com, 1 Sep 2017, updated 9 Jun 2020. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.history.com/news/the-story-behind-the-famous-little-rock-nine-scream-image.
(4) King, Jr., Martin Luther. “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” 16 Apr 1963, University of Pennsylvania African Studies Center. Web. www.africa.upenn.edu. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.africa.upenn.edu/Articles_Gen/Letter_Birmingham.html.
(5) Esquire editors, “James Baldwin: How to Cool It,” Esquire, originally published Jul 1968, reprinted online 2 Aug 2017, Web. www.esquire.com, D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/a23960/james-baldwin-cool-it/.
(6) Blakemore, Erin. “The Story Behind the Famous Little Rock Nine ‘Scream Image’: It didn’t end when Central High School was integrated.” Web. www.history.com, 1 Sep 2017, updated 9 Jun 2020. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.history.com/news/the-story-behind-the-famous-little-rock-nine-scream-image.
(7) Esquire editors, “James Baldwin: How to Cool It,” Esquire, originally published Jul 1968, reprinted online 2 Aug 2017, Web. www.esquire.com, D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/a23960/james-baldwin-cool-it/.
(9) Baldwin, James. “Letter from a Region in My Mind,” Esquire. Web. www.esquire.com. Originally published 17 Nov 1962. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1962/11/17/letter-from-a-region-in-my-mind
(10) Morning Edition. “For One Immigrant Community, George Floyd’s Death Isn’t Just About Black And White,” Special Series: “America Reckons with Racial Injustice,” 4 June 2020, NPR. Web. www.npr.org. D/L on June 16, 2020 @ https://www.npr.org/2020/06/04/868978380/for-one-immigrant-community-george-floyds-death-isn-t-just-about-black-and-white.
(11) “We See You, White American Theater,” Web. www.weseeyouwat.com. Undated. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.weseeyouwat.com/.
(12) Barajas, Joshua. “Lessons we can learn from Toni Morrison,” PBS News Hour, 6 Aug 2019. Web. www.pbs.org. D/L June 16, 2020 @ https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/lessons-we-can-learn-from-toni-morrison.