I started writing social commentary during the lengthy and often infuriating campaign leading up to the 2008 presidential election. The nation seemed to be losing its mind over "the black candidate" Barack Obama. The media-led conversations about race were shallow at best and nothing like the real-word conversations happening in communities all over the country, including right here in the Pacific Northwest. My commentary provided an opportunity to contribute to the conversation in an unflinching manner.
I decided early on that I wouldn't write to be famous or make a ton of money. I wouldn't choose topics because they were safe or popular; my motivation was to simply provide a perspective that was missing on issues critical to our time, including racism, politics, youth gun and gang violence, sexism and violence against women, education, police brutality and parenting. I didn't write because I thought I was the authority on these topics. I didn't write to be cast as the black voice, but one of many black people with a voice, exposing diversity within diversity itself.
In the years since my column has been printed here and in other papers, many of you have grown to, well, loathe me. I've been threatened, mocked, teased, confronted, disrespected and laughed at. There were times when it was painful. There were times when I was angry and wanted to lash out. Instead, I continued to write.
I'm certainly not complaining; it comes with the territory. Besides, the rewards of putting my opinions out there have been tremendous and miles beyond what I ever could have anticipated. I've grown, learned new things, met new people, and told stories that matter and about which I am deeply passionate. I met love, and even a long-lost (and believed to be dead) family member. Heck, I even met Michelle Obama. You could stick a million pins into a Sable voodoo doll and it would never be more powerful than having the First Lady hold my hand.
Many of you trusted me to tell your stories or those of your friends or loved ones. Many of you came to me privately seeking help with your own writing projects: college application essays, business plans, open letters, e-mails to coworkers, letters to estranged family members, manuscripts, poems and even declarations of love. Each was written by someone who had something important they wanted to express through writing, but just needed a little (or a lot) of help to get it done. I have been honored to tell your truth and to help you tell it yourself.
But as the nostalgic tone of this column has probably already hinted, this will be the last installment of the Lest We Forget column. The choice to end it now hasn't been very difficult; there are other projects I want to devote my time to, both personally and professionally.
To you, the readers, I say thank you. Thank you for reading my column. If you agreed or disagreed with me, thank you. If you loved what I wrote, or hated every word I ever committed to print or pixel and hoped beyond hope that I would be swallowed by the Fremont Troll never to be heard from again, thank you. For every supportive email, and every email tearing me down word by word, line by line, thank you. I'll cherish this experience more than you'll ever know.