Owning My Body, Owning My Protest
Tension was familiar, it was a part of every home I’d known until then. My body, I knew, was not my own. The physical abuse I suffered before being adopted, and after, left scars on my body that are still with me today. My mind was the only safe place, where no-one could enter.
Read MoreThe Soundtrack of Our Lives and Songs of an Endless Movement
The celebration of Black joy that we get from music is almost a priceless counterculture in the medium, a spotlight that illuminates an audience of Black faces.
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