I read it straight through, which is a very good sign. You have a wonderful, natural voice and I would like to help you if I can. I love the part about Alfred wanting to touch her hair. White people are always surprised that african american hair is really soft. Raw details like that are important. One thing that makes good writing is to not temper it. If it's a nasty cuss word that comes to mind, put it down on paper. If you find it doesn't fit later on, you can take it out. Talk about the little things that are not considered politically correct or that people are afraid to ask.
It reminded me of a friend I had in Florida. My family moved there in the seventies (we came back to GA) and I hated it. None of the other girls liked me for some reason except for an african-american girl named Vanessa. They wouldn't play with her either. We were best friends throughout that fourth grade year. Here I am 42 years old and I've never forgotten that friendship. I felt terrible for leaving her behind when we came back to GA, I hated for her to be alone around those mean girls.
Now, is this fiction or non-fiction? or a little of both, in which case it could be considered a historical drama.
Oh, I forgot to give you my web addresses.
Cilla may be just who you need so treat her well, as again she could be a blessing! ...Oh one last thing, tell Oprah that you, Cilla and Paul Dunfee will be glad to spend some time on her show to explain your new blockbuster book!
Paul Dunfee
Friend, Previous Manager, Marketing Adviser, Financial Specialist at Edward Jones, and a LinkedIn Connection
Deon Robinson
Artist, Professor of Art, Nephew
pike_72209@yahoo.com
Author Articles:
Voices of Poverty Surround Us
Source: Chicago Sun-Times
Date: 8/18/1992
Being a step from poverty, I considered myself lucky. Lucky to have found a $4 full-length silk blouse at a thrift shop. I was looking pretty fine, better than I could afford. I dropped my daughter off at school in the Loop. On the way to my destination, I heard the cry of poverty.
I was walking just behind a family of three on State Street, two young boys and one young lady - clearly the result of poverty. I wanted to give them something, as I often do when I am asked. I began to think, but I only had $5 myself. I proceeded quickly to pass the family when one boy, around the age of 10, turned to his mother, "Mommy, don't you have a quarter left?" She answered with a mumble that I could not understand. I heard him continue to speak to her. "We gotta have something to eat. I don't know if I can stand it no more." The trembling voice of pain, hunger, weakness and helplessness was the cry of poverty. I felt his tears enter my eyes. The pain he endured entered my heart. My strength weakened from fighting back the tears as the sound of his trembling voice echoed in my thoughts. "Mommy, I don't know if I can stand it no more." His cry was all around me. I began hearing my own child's voice saying his words, feeling his pain, crying his cry. Tears began to fall. I began to pray. "God give me strength to move on." I cannot change the world. I walked on, wanting to turn back and give them all that I had. I had other options. I could have gotten more money. But I walked ahead with everyone else. Not long after, I spotted another man about 25 years of age. Another victim of poverty, a homeless, puny little man, hair not combed, clothes falling off and so dirty it looked as if he had been dipped in a barrel of black oil. He approached a lady standing at a bus stop in her business attire. He held out his filthy, blackened hands. She turned her head and looked at him with disgust. He stood there awhile with his head down as if he were trying to gather more strength to move on. Again, tears began to well up in my eyes. I asked "God, what do you want of me?" I cannot save our people from poverty. I continued to walk on. Less than a block later, a voice spoke to me - a man around the age of 68, intelligent, probably not long a victim of poverty, "Hey, lady, can you help feed an old boy?" I turned to him, and I faced him and said, "I'm sorry, not today." As I walked away from him, I asked myself: Why would he call himself a boy after so many centuries of fighting to be respected as a man? Was this his plea for dignity or his admission of defeat?
In one day, I encountered a child and heard his cry in poverty. I saw a young man, begging to be acknowledged as a man, and I heard the plea for dignity.

Janet Woods is an office manager at National Decision Systems, a major marketing and demographic firm.
SOCIAL CLASSES determine the opportunities and resources you have for education and the type of occupation you can obtain thus resulting in the kind of life you live. Because of discrimination, a high percentage of Blacks from generation to generation fall in the Lower Middle Class, Working Class, and Working Poor. The Working Poor can easily fall into the category of Under Class.
April 4, 2009 - WASHINGTON -Unemployment zoomed to 8.5 percent last month.
Percentage Rate by Race
White - 7.9
Hispanic - 11.4
Black - 13.3
LIFE IN SACRED WORDS
Below is are two samples of a poems written out of 56. The first one in particular "Love's Torments", received an offer to make a song in 1976 from Century 21 (a Division of World Wide Music, Inc.) in Hollywood, California.
LOVE'S TORMENTS
I am but a star in the midst
of this great cluttered universe
Falling so fast yet so very slow
through a hell that can't be worse
The gravity of love's strength is
upon me pulling until I am no more
And a great fall I endure with tortures
upon me like no other creature before.
I am but the end of this star and soon
among you I will disappear
I'll hide from the world forever for
upon mer lies a great fear
For love has surely beaten me, I have
weakened until I have lost all
And I'll never again merert love's torments
and I will never again answer its call
For I was but a star in the midst of
this great cluttered universe
Until love captured and placed on me
this endless damnation of a curse.
Janet Woods
THE RAINBOW
My life like a storm
filled with drop of tears
My heart, thundering to
be free from all wordly fears
My dreams are only winds like
the whispering of a word
And my mind a dark cloud with
thoughts longing to be heard
Janet Woods



ll the children want peace in the world, but not all are raised free from the venom of discrimination and prejudice, and capable of looking at people of different race, color or creed as endowed with equal dignity.
A DAY TO CONNECT

