The toil of talking Blackness, tumbling down the narrowest of roads to youthful suicide, lynchings masquerading as private hangings, of taking the bits and pieces of our living, parceling them out for amusement, for entertainment, for late-night tv fodder and buzzworthy hashtags, is exhausting. Being tasked with uncovering the joy for a month out of year full of 52 weeks, 365 days, requires the craftiness of an adept magcian skilled at the art of fanciful make believe. Maybe I am bitter, maybe New York is making me sour. To be fair, I am a happy man — a diligent and doting father, a somewhat better than average son, forgiving friend, a determined lover. I have joy, the joy in my child’s eyes is borrowed from mine. I see it.
But also while I write this, I have the dubious challenge of writing words to conjure a joy that water in Flint cannot muster; a joy shithole countries and dream-deferred immigrants cannot see nor celebrate. The elation and joy I want to feel, will almost always feel subdued; a part of me recognizes that the art in living is accepting both the shallow and deep of the waters we wade in, that both sun and shower encompass all of the existence we bear fruit to here on God’s green atlas of an earth. However, the other part of me sees the Charlie Brown-esque way the rain cloud seems to travel the furthest, farthest and longest when backpacking above the heads of my…
