Of the hundreds of teens my arts program has reached in the past 12 years, fewer than 20 have sat shotgun in my car. Many were bashfully grateful for the ride, murmuring turn-by-turn directions to their front door. Some were intimidated by my banter; others were uncomfortable with any silence. All of them left behind bits of their story, perhaps as fare, and I would wait for them to wave back at my car before disappearing into an open screen door. I would drive away, counting the coins of their hard and glimmering truths. Nakila made me rich. She filled every minute of our rides with her observations, dilemmas, musings and questions. So many questions, with that one. In the early years, she asked about poems and slam and her team and how our program started and how I started and where was I from and why did I write and what did I believe in and how would she know that she’d found her voice too. In a recent interview, artist Dario Robleto said, “I d...
Dasha Kelly Hamilton's ramblings, writing and random, wild imaginings.