March 7. And now more than ever I am homeless at home.
What kind of a world allows children to go hungry and forces people out on the street because they owe $4.50 in late fees.
Well there are no more late fees or gas prices to bitch about.
There are just memories of my father's last words as I walked into the courthouse alone.
And the knowledge that he didn't lift a finger to stop the two men from removing my clothes as they put all their weight into to middle of my back, forcing my head into a plastic matress that lay on the floor.
They left bruises, abrasions and scars in places no one ever bothers to look... deep inside my heart that still aches for the injustice I have witnessed. Not only on March 7 2002, March 7, 2009, but right now as I lie hear with nothing left but broken appliances, water stained journals I kept over the years.
My body will never heal, that I can live with. But watching my neighbors, friends, collegaues, and community look the other way is much more difficult. Doctorsthat left the wounds untreated, records missing several pages of listing the first 72 hours before I was seen by a medical professional.
While I was kept in a room with no vathroom, food, speakers, or emergency call button to cry for help. Injected with drugs and that were mysteriously absent from any medical chart.
I spent the next 5 and a half months documenting my experience. I took 1,890 photos. I sent out 32,000 tweets.
No one called. No one came. No one cared.
My spirit is every bit as broken as my already fragile bones have been since I was twenty two.
There were my colleagues who lost the medical record that I so carefully preserved on the blank pages of a telephone book.
There was Christina who brought me clothing and the Pastor who promised to visit. I never saw either of them again. There was chamber meeting I so carefully composed myself to give my regrets to the Mayor. The same fucking Mayor who names me on his committee of educators. I haven't forgotten, and trust me, neither will you.
My name is Elyssa.
Elyssa Danielle Durant
Yes, I am the daughter of of the man who did this to you.
Thank you, Daddy. I'm every bit as strong as your dirty cops who beat all those men into the ground in West Philadelphia.
I am sorry for what he has done.
To you, to Mumia, and to the 13 innocents that died on May 13, 1985.
Sometimes I think they were the lucky ones.