On this day of resurrection, I think of my dad, a proud WWll vet railroaded into prison & sentenced 22-55 years for possession & sale of weed by corrupt cops & DAs—entombed in a concrete slave ship called the Ohio State Penitentiary and left for dead. But he refused to stay dead.

All that stood between my dad and entombment for life in a concrete cell block was a manual Royal typewriter and word work—nothing could resurrect and deliver him but the Queen’s English he and that Royal keyboard could crank out.

After teaching himself the law from the Warden’s own law books, dad drafted his own writs & represented himself pro se, ultimately vindicating himself in Armour v. Salisbury, a Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals case I now teach to my first-year criminal law students. #PoeticJustice.

So when I think of resurrections, my thoughts always turn to a defiant black man desperately click-clacking on a Royal manual typewriter on his cell floor, deep into the night, in search of his own salvation.

My dad’s resurrection also lies in the birth of his seed, and his seed’s seed—his son, and his son’s sons. Although pop passed over, he lives through me and my boys, his living legacies. Inspired by him, all three of my sons got their degrees: 2 @USC Trojans, 1 @UCBerkeley Bear.