Dexember 31, 1918
The year had finally come to a close, and looking back, it felt like the longest one I’d ever lived through. Not just because of the physical toll—getting sick twice, with the first bout nearly ending me—but also because of the sheer weight of everything else that had happened. The prison visit with Abel Simmons haunted me the most. That encounter had shaken something deep inside me, leaving questions I couldn’t quite let go of. How could a thirteen-year-old be so goddamn racist? How could someone so young hold onto so much hatred, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive? I couldn’t wrap my head around it, no matter how hard I tried. And believe me, I’d tried. I replayed our conversations over and over, searching for answers that simply weren’t there. Maybe they never would
- Writer
