Archive for Social Commentary

Under the Overpass: Shine Muwasi

Under the Overpass focuses on politics, current events, and social commentary from a black, crunchy, granola perspective. Myshell chooses the topics. Michael writes the commentaryThe opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer and not endorsed by or its owners.

You have just walked under the overpass and, down here, we believe in giving the drummer some. Respect and a fist bump to the hand playing the first instrument.

On most Sundays, I take my 2-year-old daughter to the Leimert Park Drum Circle in LA’s Crenshaw District. Leimert Park is the nexus of Black Los Angeles politics, culture and grassroots activism. If there is a protest rally, a political press conference, an annual African-centered cultural festival, it’s in Leimert Park. The Leimert Park Drum Circle is special because it brings together the diverse elements of the Black community. There are African immigrants, poets, politicians, children, homeless people, activists, celebrities, business owners, gangstas, hippies, Hebrew Israelites, Fruit of Islam, professors, college students, street vendors and me and my baby girl. All called by the hypnotic lure of the drum.

Typically, I bring one of my djembe drums and my daughter’s smaller version. We always start by stepping into the actual circle, with her on my shoulders, and immediately begin dancing. I like to close my eyes and sway to the ritualized music that our African ancestors infused with soul that slavery couldn’t kill. As I dance, I can feel my daughter dancing on my shoulders. Sometimes she’ll synchronize her rhythm with mine, at other times, true to her already established personality, she’ll find her own rhythm—forcing me to hold on to her legs tighter so she doesn’t fall right off my shoulders as I’m swaying deeply left.

During our initial dance, from time to time, I’ll open my eyes and see the eyes of others locked on us. Though there are approximately 40 drummers, the crowd of onlookers is always at least triple this number. I know their frequent stares are not because my groove skills are so impressive (though I have been known to bust a move when inspired). They are staring because clearly I’m not simply dancing, my free hand is raised skyward praising the most high—and so is my daughter. I know this because after our initial dance, as I’m chasing my infinitely curious daughter to and fro, people ALWAYS, stop me and say how hard my daughter is grooving. This past Sunday, a sister told me: “Your daughter was dancing so hard. She had one hand in the sky and one hand on rocking her braid.”

I want my daughter to fall in love with herself (trust me, she’s on her way). My strategy is to help her fall in love with Black people. Our soul, our humor, our style, our culture, our history and our music—including our drum. Society sends so many messages to Black children (like it sends to Black adults), that Black lives don’t matter. I’m here to make sure my daughter knows: #blacklivesmatter. As a young girl, it is especially important to me that she get this message.

Oftentimes, due to the intense anti-blackness under which Black men suffer, they turn their self-hatred in the direction of Black women. Doing the death-dealing work of institutional racism and individual racists who would love to see us destroy ourselves. The unfortunate and embarrassing truth is that waaaay too many Black men go about this work like its their damn day job. This death-dealing labor force includes some male ministers, some hip hop artists, some gangstas, some athletes, some professors, some drummers, and some brothers who claim to passionately love Black people. My response to them, mid-misogyny, is always the same: Black women are Black people too. And so is my little Black girl.

After our initial dance, we always join the drummers. A part of the beauty of being a long-time drummer is that I can hear the dominant rhythm being played in the Drum Circle and immediately add my own synchronized counter rhythm. It’s a very powerful way to demonstrate respect for the rhythms of communal life, while expressing my own individuality.

I am we, even as I am me.

I often catch my daughter watching me drum, when we first start to drum. She’ll watch me look and listen for a few moments, then launch into my counter rhythm. This is what she also does now when she starts to drum. She’ll take her eyes off me and start looking around the circle. Then she’ll tip her djembe on its side so she can sit on it. Then she’ll start to play. Usually, she’s just beating out random rhythms. Smiling and having fun hanging out with pops in the neighborhood. But every once in awhile, she’ll lock in and go on a little run. She’ll be feeling the pulsing rhythms so strong, she’ll catch a current and ride it for about 10 seconds. Then get up and start dancing—then running through Leimert Park, forcing me to stop drumming and chase after her little butt.

This our ritual.

Dance, drum, dance, run.

I know that as my daughter gets older, she’ll eventually become a very good drummer. I know because she has a great passion for it at this very early age. Even though there are few women, as models, who play in the Drum Circle. Which is why, I usually stop by The World Stage before we leave the park, because during the main Drum Circle, the all-women’s drum ensemble Shine Muwasi, hosts in indoor Drum Circle/jam session/rehearsal. When we walk in my daughter’s eyes light up seeing all the sisters drumming. The sisters eyes light up too. They are so welcoming to her. They place drums in front of her and encourage her to join in. Sometimes she does. Usually, she walks through the circle and goes right to the drum set on the stage, where she plays her own counter rhythm, here, under the overpass.

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Under the Overpass: Anti-Blackness

Under the Overpass focuses on politics, current events, and social commentary from a black, crunchy, granola perspective. Myshell chooses the topics. Michael writes the commentary. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer and not endorsed by or its owners.

You have just walked under the overpass and, down here, we’ve been thinking about blackness — not to be confused with black-ish — but they’re sorta related in that play-cousin kinda way.

Black people are everywhere. You would think that ubiquitous presence would remind others that we were the first people on the planet and cause them to give us the dap we deserve. It’s the infrequent Black sighting that begins with “Hey, my primordial sister, thanks for making the rest of us possible!” Instead, Black bodies are too often shot on sight. Reason be damned, weapon unfound, and jury decisions unfounded.

Being Black can be bad for your health.

The socio-economic and political externalities of walking around in a Black body require an extraordinary amount self-care. Or technologies of the self, as Michel Foucault would argue. The process of identifying and implementing strategies to undergird the thing inside us that makes us who we are. Technologies to enliven the spirit. Practices that can build our internal infrastructure in a world performing synchronized explosive demolitions on Black bodies like we’re vacant buildings. Stop me when I start lying.

Encountering blackness makes people lose their minds. Not long ago, I was entering the elevator in the university building where I teach English literature. I was wearing a blazer, carrying a satchel full of graded papers and rocking eyewear thick enough to suggest that I know my way around a book. A middle-aged white women literally moved deep into the corner of the elevator, brought her purse close to her bosom, angled her body to give me the Floyd Mayweather raised shoulder and looked at me like I was Lil Wayne on that syrup.

Her reaction sent my emotions swirling. I recall clearly that I had been having a good day. It was a sunny spring semester which has a way of putting you in a good mood because it’s a signifier that summer break is near. I was feeling good. Then I was not. First, I remember feeling embarrassed. I was embarrassed because my blackness had made this strange woman act so strangely. Her crazy was my fault. My skin had victimized her. Then I caught myself. And got mad. I almost said, “You have NOTHING I want.” But I didn’t. In part, I was silenced by the potential repercussions of exploding my rage on her. In part, I was silenced because I was hurt. I didn’t have my guard up, so her actions hit an emotional chord. A tender one. One that most of us keep well protected as we engage white folk at our jobs, talk to police officers with our hands in full view on the steering wheel, order from the waiter, raise our hands to answer the question in class and clear our throats to speak in meetings. When the white gaze is on us, we feel the weight, potential danger and stress that it brings. That’s why many of us don’t feel comfortable socializing with our white colleagues. Why some of us feel such a rage at any perceived slight. Why we medicate alone on Hennessy, Cognac, and Hendrix Kush. It hurts to have people judge us on sight. Worse when they start firing. It’s painful and tiring walking through the world with a black body when the world is drunk on anti-blackness.

Anti-blackness can be best understood within the framework forwarded by theorist Jared Sexton: In a world structured by the twin axioms of white superiority and black inferiority, of white existence and black non-existence, a world structured by a negative categorical imperative – “above all, don’t be black” [quoting Lewis Gordon] – in this world, the zero degree of transformation is the turn toward blackness, a turn toward the shame, as it were, that “resides in the idea that ‘I am thought of as less than human’” [quoting Tavia Nyong’o].

Although some of us may not use the term anti-blackness in our daily interactions, our daily interactions inform our perfect understanding of the term.

The irony of anti-blackness is that most of us would rather be black (according to my unscientific polling, involving unrepresentative sample sizes comprised of me and other cats over the years). Despite living in an anti-black world, we love us some us. The flavor of our nomenclature. The soul lineage from Al Green to Anthony Hamilton. The articulation of Barbara Christian’s intellect. The through line to Erica R. Edwards. Vorris L. Nunley on a dialectical roll. Allen Iverson’s crossover. It’s extension through Kyrie Irving. The courage of Barbara Lee. The fierceness of Maxine Waters. The hipness of my teenage daughter. The soul of my 2-year-old baby girl who calls Malcolm X, “Uncle X” because he feels so familiar to her on vinyl.

Anti-blackness can kiss our black asses.

The people who are pushing it on the world, and supporting its unsavory regime, aren’t really encountering Black people. They’re encountering the trope of Blackness. Theorist Vorris L. Nunley describes a trope as, “Distinctive concentrations and constellations of dense cultural and experiential energy. Such energy enables certain effects with certain audiences through visual, verbal, written, or gestural performativity. Tropes alter, heighten, and increase constellations of cultural signs.” The woman in the elevator didn’t encounter Michael Datcher, she encountered a constellation of cultural energy that included her stereotypes about Black men. That cultural energy created a heightened affect in her body when she was forced to share an elevator space with the trope of blackness —- in the form of a blazer wearing English professor.

George Zimmerman didn’t encounter Trayvon Martin, a teenage boy with a high-grade point average who was his father’s best friend and had a weakness for Skittles, Zimmerman encountered the trope of blackness.

Officer Darren Wilson didn’t encounter a college-bound teenager with dreams named Michael Brown. He encountered the trope of blackness.

The trope of blackness can kiss our black asses, too. We’re keeping it one-hundred, here, here under overpass.

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Under the Overpass: Activist Burnout

Under the Overpass focuses on politics, current events, and social commentary from a black, crunchy, granola perspective. Myshell chooses the topics. Michael writes the commentary. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer and not endorsed by or its owners.

You have just walked under the overpass and, down here, some of the sickest healers, are the sickest healers. Some who do the most work, are the most unwell, most worn out.

When I was an undergraduate at Berkeley, the stimulating mix of brilliant intellectualism and concrete activism spoke to me. Brainy idealism meets pragmatic organizing. This was something I could feel. Be a part of. Believe in.

The campaigns, the rallies, the Big Brother programs, the activist art gave me an arena to put my heart into action. Make love a verb. I learned this from my mentors.

The older activists in our circle were both larger than life and the people who sent me on Blue Mountain Jamaican rum runs to lubricate talk of life and politics. They saw me as a sincere younger colleague. I saw them as a roadmap. They were slowly creating a new life arc for me. Without really trying. They were just living their lives by their convictions. I just happened to be there to watch. My two main mentors were the great poet and activist June Jordan and the legendary literary critic and activist Barbara Christian. Theirs souls are light now as they were when their bodies were alive. It’s emotional to even type their names now. They lived their love for justice out-loud and I listened very closely. Learned. Then began to recite chapter and verse through my own activism.

I can still recall the day that I called my mother after class to inform her that her baby wasn’t gonna have that corner office in the sky. No Brooks Brothers auction block for me. The expletives that left her mouth were a new experience. This Southern woman, of Southern manners, put some Miles Davis in her MFs.

I could not be swayed. I was smitten. Learning about myself and the world had made me want to think for myself about the world and my place in it. I was rolling with the people who wanted to leave the planet better than when they arrived. Folk who wanted to do something to help people help themselves. Activists down for the get down.

It wasn’t just professors Jordan and Christian. Berkeley’s bench went deep. I still have not encountered another squad of committed activists with as many numbers as Berkeley. Although I would stack my undergraduate education against anyone, I actually learned more out of class than I did in class. One cautionary teaching: heal yourself as you help others heal themselves.

It would take more than the digits on my fingers and toes to name the people I personally saw burn out in the beautiful struggle. Good people who got tired of engaging the bad that the world can put out. People exhausted from giving to causes and people who were often indifferent. Or simply didn’t want a bleeding heart cramping their dysfunction. Underpaid activist who were worn down by the crises in their own lives, as they dove head-first into global crises. Organizers who got sick of the misogyny and post-rally booty calls. Community leaders who medicated on alcohol and the praise of others. So many gone when we needed them most.

My college experience convinced me that activists have to work as hard at building our internal infrastructure as we do at building external infrastructures on the planet. We have to make the time to do what Michel Foucault would call engaging in technologies of the self. Find ways to undergird the spirits that place these worker-bee bodies into action. I agree with Foucault that art, culture and the sensorium are edifying technologies, but I would add a heavy dose of some type of consistent spiritual practice (art, culture and sensorium can certainly play a role in spirituality). Spiritual practice in the broadest possible sense: some practice that uplifts the spirit. Daily. Life happens every day, so it behooves activists to have a daily practice. We give so much of ourselves that not to give to ourselves is foolish and irresponsible. For Black activists in particular.

In my life time, this era marks the most challenging time for the African American community. From self-inflicted urban violence to cop propelled bullets to the roll back of civil rights to the prison industrial complex to HIV-infection rates to crack’s stubborn refusal to disappear to failing schools to the rise in suicide rates to Clarence Thomas, Black people are catching major hell. We need all hands on deck. When activists don’t take care of themselves, we let our communities down when they need us most. Like so many before us, we will fall if we don’t build our internal infrastructures daily.

Maybe you need to go back to Jesus. If Jesus is working for you, don’t let your Marxist homies negative-dialectical you out of a healing.

Others need to find something new. Something that wasn’t passed down from their families. The work is in figuring out what it is. Yoga, running, meditation, Tai Chi, Tantric sex, ocean-swimming, art making. Do something. But we first we have to figure out what that something is. And do it. Daily. A beautiful ritual but it doesn’t have to be a beautiful struggle. It can simply be a beautiful healing, here, under the overpass.

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Under The Overpass: The Politics of Social Justice

Under the Overpass focuses on politics, current events, and social commentary from a black, crunchy, granola perspective. Myshell chooses the topics. Michael writes the commentary. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer and not endorsed by or its owners.

You have just walked under the overpass and, down here, we’ve been talking badly about Black politicians. Our No Hateration Rule is strictly enforced, so our bad talk is not mean-spirited. We’re naming the bad, not luxuriating in the critique.

We’re disappointed.

We expect more from our paid political leaders, especially when many of our youth are paying big for a world dealing them bad hands and hot bullets. We expect more when Black unemployment is twice the rate of whites (aprox.11.5% to 5.4%). We expect more when, according to the Sentencing Project ( ) one in three black men can expect to be incarcerated in their life time. We expect more when prison guards are raising hundreds of thousands of our young black men—a tragic twist to It Takes A Village.

We expect more when shit is this bad.

Bad community conditions mean politicians can’t be bad too.

Thankfully, we have a great number of community activists who are being good, and doing good. The Dream Defenders, Color of Change, Dignity and Power Now, AGENDA, and Community Coalition are doing vital work. These organizations have a grass roots focus that believes that change happens from the bottom up. It’s an approach that involves ascertaining the needs and desires of the community, and working collectively to manifest those needs and desires. This is a social justice approach. It’s an approach that our political leaders should embrace.

Too often the approach of our political leaders is rooted in getting elected and reelected. If the needs of the community happen to align with getting elected and reelected, it’s all good. This alignment seems to be occurring with less frequency, which may explain why our politicians seem all bad.

In fairness, there are two elements of the political game that can adversely affect a Black politician’s ability to serve the community. Politics is a dirty game and the dirt is green. It takes money to run campaigns, pay for commercials, and pay staff. The money usually comes from people who are outside of our community. Lobbyists paying for access (and hopefully votes) that can lead to increased profit, and individual business owners with the same agenda. When the campaign is over these donors expect some love — and they get it — and it’s not a quickie. Even when the love means an outcome that isn’t necessarily in the best interest of the community.

The other major element that adversely affects Black politicians ability to serve their Black constituents is the “current political protocol.” The protocol is enforced by lobbyists, special interests and “the mood of the country.” This element is best understood via example.

The current political protocol around the apartheid regime in Israel is that politicians don’t call it apartheid, although there is a two-tiered system in place for Jewish people living in Israel and occupied Palestine and non-Jewish people living in Israel and the occupied Palestine.

Despite the Israeli government’s collective punishment of Palestinians by bull dozing homes, destroying farmland, government takeover of Palestinian land, imposing checkpoints on main roads, and building an outdoor prison featuring an electric fence, the current political protocol requires American politicians to “support our special friend Israel” and blame the Palestinians for their oppression at the hands of the state of Israel. This is all bad, but what makes it more awful, is that over 4 billion dollars in US taxpayer money goes to Israel every year to support this badass state of affairs. Black people pay taxes too (except for Wesley Snipes and Xzibit), so our money is also supporting an apartheid regime.

As a people who have suffered an extraordinary amount of state-sponsored oppression (slavery, COINTELPRO, Ronald Reagan, ect,) our interests more naturally align with those of the Palestinian people. Our political leaders, then, should be working to support our interests by calling for the liberation of Palestine and an immediate moratorium on the annual 4 billion dollar Oppression Gift that goes from our pockets to the oppressor. This summer, when the latest incursion into Gaza was killing almost 1000 Palestinians, including scores of civilians, and a shocking number of children, the entire Congressional Black Caucus voted “yea” on a resolution that called the attacks legitimate “self-defense.” To demonstrate the power of the current political protocol surrounding Israel, the infamously divided congress passed the resolution unanimously.

The Congressional Black Caucus used to be called the “Conscience of the Congress,” in part, for their principled resistance to the apartheid regime in South Africa. It’s tragic that the CBC is now supporting apartheid in Israel. Oh, and brother president Barack Hussein Obama, is down with Israeli apartheid too. It’s chilling.

Controlled by money and the current political protocol, our political leaders are making choices that go directly against the interests of large swaths of our community member’s interest. Now what? How do we get our politicians to take positions that support social justice? Let’s talk solutions.

African Americans have to keep up with the issues of the day—and vote. It’s on us to be aware of the types of votes that Black politicians are making as our representatives. This type of information-based civic duty is mandatory, not only for us, but for those who we could inspire to be more up on political game. We have to make sure our barbershop/beauty salon/park rec league hoop sideline/Scandal party conversations also include what’s happening politically. Those in the know, have to be unafraid to steer the conversation towards the real, even when there’s resistance in the room. It’s our Black civic duty.

Secondly, we have to try to find ways to influence the decisions of our politicians. Campaign contributions are the best way, but if your money is short, you’d be amazed at the power of a letter. Organizing letter writing campaigns to the folk who represent you works. They know you’re paying attention—which means that you care enough to be a “likely voter.” Groups of likely voters get call-backs, email-backs and holler-backs from politicians.

Lastly, we have to support the politicians, at any level, who are acting, at least sometimes, like that got some damn sense. Holly Mitchell, Maxine Waters, Barbara Lee and Mark Ridley-Thomas fit this bill. Write them letters when they’re making tough votes. Send them a dub for their campaign. Volunteer at a phone bank. Tell them, “Thank you,” for supporting social justice if you see them at an event. These are small things, but they have a way of reminding our leaders why they got involved in politics in the first place: to make things better for people, here, under the overpass.

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Black-ish is Necessary. Deal With It.

We interrupt this Marital Mondays to bring you my Black-ish rant.

This past April, my daughters’ dance school was preparing for their May recital. The lobby was bustling with sequin-covered kids and parents purchasing last minute jazz shoes on their smartphones. In a cozy little nook, three Jewish girls sat complaining to their mothers about their bread cravings. They were fasting for Passover, and they made sure everyone in the small space knew about it. The 4:30pm classes ended, and a charismatic little boy (the only boy at the whole studio) walked out of hip-hop smiling. Noticing the Star of David on his necklace, the girls asked, “How can you be so happy right now?”

“I had a great class. Why?” he asked, with confusion tying his eyebrows into a knot. The girls grabbed at their stomachs moaning.

“You’re fasting for Passover, right?”

“Oh, honey, I’m not that Jewish.” he answered with a smirk as he exited the studio. It was awkward for some, funny to others, and offensive to the hungry girls in the corner.

Cultural imperialism is in the very DNA of America. Every little kid in this country wants to know who the large white dude in the red suit at the mall is. Media brainwashing is watering down the cultures of most minorities in this country. Some yellow folks want their eyelids surgically creased. I’ve met brown people who don’t know what elders in their family are saying, because they don’t speak a lick of Spanish. Our Jewish friends have a Christmas tree. Black people are certainly not exempt from this culture sapping, and that is why the show Black-ish is necessary. The show is a comedic depiction of a wealthy black family living in a white neighborhood. It is a new humorous reminder to go back to the source, remember our history, and remain in discussion about the damage being done.

I’m pro-dialogue, and Black-ish definitely has people talking about race. I’ve seen people online, who never have anything to say about racism, complaining about this show. They don’t have anything to say about freeing Palestine, but they took the Ice Bucket Challenge. They don’t discuss domestic violence unless it involves their favorite running back. Likewise, people want to go hard on this comedy show that is addressing issues, but they have “reality” shows, like Real Housewives of Atlanta and Love and Hip-Hop, that are perpetuating sooooo many horrible stereotypes saved in their DVRs. We don’t get to pick and choose when to be socially responsible. Moreover, to paraphrase my brother, Brandon Easton, if you own every season of Martin on DVD, and you’re saying this show is buffoonery, power all of your devices down and stop communicating with the rest of the world (Also Known As: You and Sheneneh need to have a few seats).

There are inevitable comparisons to The Cosby Show. “How can two professionals have kids who are that stupid or uninformed?” *clears throat* Enter: Theo Huxtable. One of Cliff’s most famous lines was, “Theo, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Most Americans (myself NOT included) send their kids to school for eight hours per day, so if they both work, they have little time outside of dinner to supplement their children’s educations. School is an institution with its own agenda. It is highly believable that the child characters on Black-ish are lacking in areas that the parents haven’t noticed for a few years. How much can one really know about their child if they spend approximately two and a half hours with them each day? I had a friend on Facebook who didn’t know that her child lacked good directional sense until last month. She’s in the eleventh grade! Moreover, it’s comedy. Hyperbole will be used for comedic effect.

Black-ish also highlights the ignorance that gets perpetuated every day. I practice traditional African spirituality and I have for over ten years now. I can’t count on two hands, ten toes, and two titties how many times a fellow African-American has asked or said something ignorant about it. I’ve heard “Ya’ll throw rocks at the ground?” “Do you drink period blood?” “What are the chickens for?” “Do you eat cowrie shells?” Some of the questions have been sincere inquiries, but most people were mocking African traditions the same way the father on the show did when he threw sticks in his son’s face during the “rights of passage” ceremony. It’s particularly irksome when people who have adopted the religion of the oppressor throw shade at those who go back to the source. Ignorance needs to be addressed, and I’m all for using humor to do it. Much of my website is satire. Scenes like this are no reason to show a throw away. I’m willing to keep the bones in the salmon croquette.

People need to see this show. Some folks don’t know how ridiculous they sound when they tell a biracial person that they aren’t “really black.” The scene between the mother (Tracee Elis Ross) and father in Black-ish addressed it in a simple, comedic way. The mother’s comment, “If I’m not black, could somebody please tell my hair and my ass” showed that she is clear that she is black, and she gently put the husband in his place for it. It is a sitcom (read: situation comedy). It has to be funny. It’s not a documentary on the History Channel. They have thirty minutes to get it in. If you expected wifey to pull out a crate, stand on it, and start preaching like Malcolm X, you were tuned into the wrong show. I know there is a fine line between comedy and “cooning,” and that line is thinner where race is involved. I don’t, however, consider highlighting racial inequality in the workplace or showcasing the ills of sending a black child to a predominantly white school (been there done that) equivalent to wearing blackface while doing a shuffle-ball-change.

I’m not interested in nitpicking at the details of one episode, because I’m in it for the series. If I agonized over every individual day with Hannibal, we would not still be happily married. This was a promising pilot for a show that plans to cover a lot of ground in a funny way. Stick with it. I’ll be there every week with a handful of Azzizah’s Herbal Green Popcorn (regular popcorn = Monsanto) tuning in to Tracee Ellis Ross’ shenanigans.

I’ll concede that the writers may need to decide who will be the conscious character(s) in the show. It’s difficult to reconcile a character who understands that his job is being racist and his kid is assimilating a little too far with the fact that he wouldn’t address the divisive comment that Lawrence Fishburne’s character, the grandfather, made — “Africans don’t like us anyway.” After brief reflection, however, I wasn’t surprised that Andre (Anthony Anderson’s character) didn’t “check” his father. It is not culturally typical for an African-American to go around putting their elders in their places. My father says all kind of things I don’t agree with. He’s old. I just let it ride.

Yes, the statement was divisive, but it is tossed around in black barbershops and on back porches all the time, so the show was correct in putting it up for discussion. We know that no group is a monolith. It is never safe to say “All African-Americans hate Africans” or vice versa, but it is not common in comedy to spell everything out either. That’s not funny. That’s dry. The audience was supposed to view grandpa’s comment as satire not as relatable. Sadly, so many people still agree with what the character said, that the statement became the impetus for an Amen chorus for some people (my daddy included) and defense cue for others (Mostly black Facebook. Black Twitter seemed to get the show).

Meanwhile, my ten-year-old completely understood each joke, knows the difference between satire and reality, and gets that literally and figuratively are two different things. She also knows her history and knows how to spot micro-aggressions when she encounters them. She didn’t feel awkward in the waiting room of the dance studio during Passover last April. The comment from a charismatic Jewish boy in the lobby, like Black-ish, simply served as a funny reminder that we aren’t the only group of people whose culture is slowly being washed away.

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