During an interview with Donald Glover, also known as Childish Gambino, the creator of This is America, he is asked to “explain what’s happening during the video.” Gambino simply replies with, “No, I feel like it’s not my place to say that,” leaving the video up for interpretation. He implies that defining the meaning of the song would defeat its purpose, as the true value and theme of the song is derived from the variation in interpretations and what viewers choose to focus on. This is America, an artistic masterpiece released in 2018, used film and lyrics to portray a hard-hitting message about the frightening reality of the black experience in America and how it’s masked by the media’s portrayal of black Americans. Throughout his career, Gambino has been known for his symbolism in complex discography and visual genius, making this one of his hit singles, considering its dire message and ability to spark a national conversation.…
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For the past few days, I took a lot of time thinking about my legacy. Thinking about what I will leave on this earth, in this city, that will outlive me. For many people they find this in their children, in families, and those they leave behind. As much as I dream of having children, I fear my reality and lifestyle is pushing that dream farther and farther away. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or not, but I am sure of one thing. I do not want the burden of telling my story to fall on the shoulders of my family. For those who have to create the narrative for their dead loved one. To my wife, who would prefer family time over the idea of a legacy, for this to all fall on her lap would be the cruelest gift my death could leave her.…
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I hang around a lot of people who are older than me. I have been labeled as an “old soul” who is well beyond her years in wisdom, actions, and musical tastes. Nonetheless, I have also been the victim of tongue lashings by older women of color for the lack of activism and attention that Generation Y and Z pay to social injustices and current events. According to these “seasoned” women, we are more focused on “fake hair and popularity appearance” and “who’s fighting on Basketball Wives” and “the Snapchat filter.”
Obviously, these women have not cleaned
their bifocal contact lenses lately.
Young women of color are speaking up and out on injustices that happen every day, and it is not just with a social media filter. …
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“Toubab! Toubab!” A band
of small children break the morning silence. They are following us at a respectful
distance, just in case the ‘white people’ would suddenly turn on them.
More than 20 years have passed, yet these memories remain as vivid
as if they occurred yesterday. A journey to Senegal, the cradle of the West
African drum scene, changed my musical appreciation—and my life—forever. I
still get goose bumps when I mentally relive the journey’s high point, our final
night in the nation’s capital, Dakar. But more about that in a moment.
It was the culmination of my youthful exploration of West African
drum and dance culture, a truly life-changing period of immersion into some of
the greatest music on Earth. You couldn’t make it up, a tale of bribery,
malaria, and ecstatic musical virtuoso.…
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“Anything is better than being homeless,” says Rose Labbe in
a thick accent that basks in the warmth of her island heritage. She is a middle
aged Haitian woman and is seated with her legs crossed on a black wooden crate
in the backyard of her three bedroom house. She is five feet two, caramel
skinned, and dons a blue scarf on her head in a wrapped style. Her dress is red
and matches the color of her eyes which signals the many hours of work she puts
in as a part-time McDonald’s employee and full time Amazon warehouse worker.
Seated on her throne of a crate, she gives me the likening of a tired Erzulie, a figure of strength and passion in her native homeland ready to take on any obstacle and carry on a life cognizant of a faraway American dream; one she probably formed as she watched different American sitcoms on her antenna TV in Haiti seven years ago.…
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The Troll on the Bridge
I have been singing the same song in my head for twenty minutes now. It’s not that it’s my favorite song or that I don’t know lyrics to any others. I don’t know why I feel so compelled to sing it, but I do know that it was three minutes and seven seconds long and that its title was five words long. I also knew that if I picked up a rock to examine it, I would have to start the chorus over again because I would be too perplexed on which way the rock should sit to think about the words. North, south, left, or right, either way it wasn’t how it should be situated and….shit. It’s the troll again. …
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