Alexander Hardy, wordsmith for hire, is the dance captain of Saint Damita Jo Jackson’s Royal Army. He writes on life, race and chicken at thecoloredboy.com and elsewhere. He does not believe in snow.
Each time I strip down and peel back the scumbagginess on that dangerously comfortable couch, I feel a few steps closer to Better Personhood, like the Fuckshit hasn’t all been for naught. I completely understand how people become hooked on you to cope with being hooked on self-destruction and other methods of advancing death, because you hurt so good.
Madame DuVernay’s gorgeous film—a respectability junkie’s wet dream—is a Black Hollywood family reunion. A clown car of working, beautiful Black actors, if you will. This 127-minute journey into ancient TerribleWhitePeopleLand, America, is jam-packed with magical melanin, legendary edge-ups, masterfully coiffed Ebony Earth Goddesses and powerful lip liner aplenty. And Common.
In these Blackpeoplegatherings, there is an unspoken hierarchy of meal-making clearance that exists to ensure collective enjoyment and prevent mass food poisoning. More importantly, where dish responsibility is concerned, this hierarchy helps avoid culinary blunders and embarrassment: Meats > Macaroni and Cheese > Greens> Other Sides > Dessert, etc.