By Mary Annette Pember
Thoughts of my mother are always bittersweet. In recent years however, the bitterness has grown into hope. It is not an easy hope, covered in thorns as it is, but hope nonetheless. In my younger days, I was derailed for years by my deep sense of personal injustice. She was not the loving mother I deserved to have.
She was often cold and harsh, self absorbed and quick-tempered; she was never like the doting mothers of my white classmates. For many years, I felt terribly deprived and justifiably resentful.



By Tim Glanfield
By Rozina Kidari
By Ann Marina
By Jake Singleton