I’ve been thinking a lot about my friend Cassandra.
She and I have worked together all year strategizing on how to promote her memoir We Are Bridges in ways that feel authentic to her and to her project.
We Are Bridges launches in two weeks (on 4/20 yay!), but that’s not the only reason she’s been on my mind.
In anticipation of our interview, Cassandra let me read an early copy of We Are Bridges and I’ve been thinking how bitter sweet it must feel to know her work is so timely.
Let me explain.
Over the last week, as I've followed the trial to hold the officer who murdered George Floyd accountable, I've kept thinking about Cassandra's family.
About her great-grandfather Burt Bridges, who was lynched in 1904.
About her grandfather who cried, well into old age, about never getting to meet his father.
About her mother who never coaxed the full story of Burt Bridges' murder out of Cassandra’s great-grandmother Mary.
About her teenage son. Her. Teenage. Son.
And of course about Cassandra herself.
She who touched (Great) Grandma Mary, and through that connection, touched Burt Bridges himself.
Something Cassandra said in our interview took my breath away, and I can't stop thinking about it, especially as I reflect on current events.