What a gorgeous city. It's weird. I've been so sheltered and unexposed for much of my life. I stayed in Baltimore as a kid, went to school in D.C., had a kid and that was it. I was all East Coast. One thing about rising up in the writing game (just a little folks, it's still gully over here!) is that I've seen so much more. I think I've traveled more in the past two years, than I had in my entire life.Kind of sad, huh?
A lot of times I feel like Malcolm off to Mecca--race exists in a really specific way on the East Coast and in the South. But out West, it just feels different. I can't even describe it. I was in Colorado last summer, in an area where you probably could have counted the black folks on one hand. (including me and Kenyatta) Normally, in those situations out east, I get my guard up--half expecting the Skinheads (or worse the cops) to materialize out of nothing. But out there, I never thought twice about our diminished numbers. It just felt different.
Sometimes, I wonder how long I can exist like this. I'm not saying it's gravy everywhere else. But it'd be nice to take a load off. To not constantly think about this shit, to not have it weighing down on you. It'd be nice to just exist. I love being black. I love the food. I love the culture. I love the dancing. I love the music (most of it). I love the basketball (watching it). I love humor. And I think the language, in all its dialects, is just beautiful.
But (quiet as it's kept) I hate talking about it. I hate justifying the humanity of it. I hate explaining to people that we are not interchangeable, and yet that doesn't mean that one of us is more, or less, black than the other. I hate, as Du Bois would say, being a problem. It'd be nice to just live a little. Kiss my woman. Take the boy for a hike. Breath some air.
Peace to commenter Breadandroses for coming out--and Glenn for buying a book. For the horde, indeed.