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There may not be any bad kids, Barack, but there sure are a lot of bad parents.
Afficher en entierI awoke still weeping, my first real tears for him - and for me, his jailor, his judge, his son. I turned on the light and dug out his old letters. I remembered his only visit - the basketball he had given me and how he had taught me to dance. And I realized, perhaps for the first time, how even in his absence his strong image had given me some bulwark on which to grow up, an image to live up to, or disappoint.
Afficher en entierI realized then, standing alone in an empty McDonald's parking lot in the South Side of Chicago, that I was a heretic. Or worse - for even a heretic must believe in something, if nothing more than the truth of his own doubt.
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