You sit there in your room, that shrunken world, surrounded by trinkets; an attempt to anchor the tides of your ebbing memory. I have been told that you dislike visitors but I have come nevertheless, before I lose my nerve.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I signed up for my class about leadership in ministry settings. However, I quickly fell into the intense depths of the first book assigned, My Grandmother’s Hands. It’s all about healing from racialized trauma and not just for folks with skin darker than my pale European descent.
You weren’t in the casual class pictures that we took from time to time, or so I thought. You were not friends with my friends. I don’t think you had any, really. But I was at the front each time. And yet, somehow, I met you one day.
As a history fan, I thoroughly enjoyed the honest, in-depth historical setting, details, and experiential ways of life depicted in the book. Other history fans, particularly of the medieval period, will enjoy these elements as well. These historical pieces come into vivid clarity through Swanson’s writing in ways that non-historians could never offer.