I was sent to prison for a crime I did not commit. Because of the color of my skin, I was sentenced to death by hard labor. I learned a difficult lesson about the unfair system of justice for those who can’t afford it. I swore on that day, I would not die in vain. In fact, I caught myself shaking my fist in the air, as if cursing the heavens.
Dr. Cornelius Hamilton took a deep breath and paused, as if waiting for logic to kick him squarely in the behind and bring him back down to earth. He was more than surprised that his hands were trembling. He was actually nervous. He flexed his muscles and liked what he saw. It gave the blue and red unitard credibility to be filled out with such a sheer hard body. All the hours at the gym paid off, but not as much as the steroids. Yet, he was still filled with trepidation.
Like most impotent paradigms and empathy short cuts, the expression ‘thoughts and prayers’ was born from a congregation of old white wealthy elites with more money than they needed. Especially detached from sweat, blisters and all else that reeks of a day of honest work. It was the worst case scenario of unchecked privilege and greed gathered in one place, all nickel and diming their way to millions, then billions, leaving their dog shit footprints on the back of those less fortunate, crushing the weak, infuriating the survivors. This was the lugubrious collective known as the one percent. It smelled like dust, mold and spiderwebs.