I'm listening to This is Madness by The Last Poets while sitting in a black-owned coffee shop in my heavily mixed-race neighbourhood, one of the historic center's of Washington, DC's sizeable black middle glass. I'm surrounded by young hipsters and middle-aged black families, nodding my head in time with the beat, and really enjoying the music--when it suddenly occurs to me that if they could see this, the men who cut that album would probably be quite horrified.

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