When we had a problem in our home growing up, my mother would call a family meeting. The four of us — my mother, father, sister, and me — would gather at the kitchen table. My mother held court — her arms folded across her chest, often peering over her bifocals. My father sat silently looking down at the ground or table, fiddling with his enormous cocoa hands. My sister, seven years my junior, would steal glances at me (she and I both trying to figure out which of us was in trouble).

Our family meetings were rarely about goodness

shea martin

boston-based lit educator, researcher, and mixtape maker raised at the intersections of gospel and go-go. find [them] dreaming and working toward liberation.

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