This is not a fairy or fable. This isn’t one of my historical reference blogs or a post to honor someone. This is non-fiction. This blog is about living the facts of raising two young black men. My nephews, who are now the ages of 20 and 16. In particular the oldest who stands a little over 6’1″ with skin stained to the hue of blackberries.
This is about his dubious eyes when I tried to explain I needed to have a conversation about his skin tone and it had nothing to do with science or medicine. No, it wasn’t me fussing because he forgot to put lotion on his elbows again. It was about politics and its’ rapacious attachment to control. The greed of it all and the pretentious stare down the broad of your nose. The side of politics that tries to keep African Americans comfortably controlled to avoid another time span of collective awareness or us developing a community of critical thinkers. This conversation was to show him how living outside of himself will keep him hungry. How, breathing below his intuition will have him comfortable with eating from a blood stained hand that has slapped him repeatedly and then make him feel actuated to say, ‘thank you.’ “I know you’d rather be downstairs playing video games, but I need you to hear me out…’