Insecurity… How does one begin to understand how intimately I know that feeling? In family, in society, in my writing, there is constantly something that must be proven about myself. Am I the “new negro” stalwart of this renaissance we are living in? Or am I still the fatherless half-white from Chicago? What’s worse is that everything that makes me different, is also what makes me particularly capable of sending ripples like a run in silk through the ordinary. Perhaps if Irene is the worst of me, then Clare in her comfortable disruption is the best.

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