Memoir at the intersection of road, race, and reinvention.
Memoir and personal essays by Quincy James Freeman: autobiographical writing on family, work, grief, identity, and the roads between chapters.
I was nine. The paperwork says the adoption was final on February 16, 1993, and the paperwork wins that argument. I only recently learned that the Edmund D. Edelman Children’s Court in Monterey Park had opened the summer before, so I was one of its early customers. Here’s what I remember. A judge asked my … Read more
Where once the whispers concerned how many hearts he held at once, they now concern how few he has managed to keep.
A confession, twenty years late, about the night I fed the men who came to arrest me.
On the geometry of a life moved through. There are parts of America I know only because I had somewhere else to be.
Five and a half months of motion, and what it costs. I left home on January 5th, bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
Met my biological mother. Terminated. Waiting in Elkhart. Loneliness stopped being theoretical and started feeling structural.
A look back at the Greenville plant floor in its final days, and the first real corporate job that took me up to IT Support Team Lead.
Grief does not disappear. It waits. It watches. It returns when you are still enough to feel it.
