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That Day

Fifteen years.

That's 180 months; 5,478 days. 131,472 hours. 7,888,320 minutes.

I've lived, loved, lost, loved again. Relocated more times than I care to admit.

And yet, that day never leaves my mind. It has become a part of my DNA.

Reading stories from people who lost loved ones on that tragic day still brings tears to my eyes. I still don't find myself rushing down to Ground Zero. I still don't trust life away from home without my phone.

As I look out from my place in the Bronx, I see the same blue sky I saw 15 years ago. The eyes I looked with then could see without assistance and thought our country, though deeply flawed, was safe.

I'm older now. Wiser. My eyes can't see anything clearly without progressive lenses. My safety as a woman and an American is threatened every day. As a Black person, it's doubly threatened because things can happen to me that'll never be prosecuted. Even though my life matters, this country doesn't understand how much.

Even though it's hard, I still have hope. Not in America, though. I have hope in a God Who loves me.

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I knew that tonight would be a pivotal moment in our history, and you did not disappoint. No matter what I thought before this evening, you addressed everything I needed clarification on. Thank you for that.
I had all kinds of fanciful thoughts in my mind about what this evening would be. I took every scenario I could and played it out to its end. Each and every one of them. And when I got to the one that actually happened, I thought to myself, surely he won't let this happen. Surely he cares more than that. If he reached out, surely he'll follow through.
But no...not you. You did what you always do. You stood me up, and you let me down. Again. 
I shouldn't be surprised. In fact, I'm not. No matter how much faith I try to put in you, you constantly prove that you don't deserve it. No matter how much I try to see the good in you, you always manage to bring the worst to the forefront. And if my feelings are hurt, it's my fault for trying.
You don…