The Color of Strawberries (or, Sometimes Racism Isn’t)

The Color of Strawberries (or, Sometimes Racism Isn’t)

My grandmother hated strawberries the most. She loved to eat them of course, ripe and sweet and seeded with sunlight and good soil.  Tucked into neat mounds cuddled in black plastic and covered with pale woodchips.  But she hated the harvesting.  Bending low, crawling forward inch by inch on scabbed knees as a hunched spine [...]