Girl In Translation
Black No MoreIf Living Color was a book written in 1933, it would be almost this comical.
- By PavarottiShakur
- 28 October, 2013
- 2 Comments
Pissed. Weird. Alone. Hopeless.
These are all the feeling you’ll have after watching the highly anticipated movie…Baggage Claim.
Which is a walk in the park compared to what you’ll feel after watching 12 Years A Slave.
After watching this right here you will feel like, like…
*** runs down the street and right back to the porch again ****
You will feel like your psyche has been singed with a burning pack of Newport One Hunnits.
Like it doesn’t matter what you do with the remaining 20 damn hours of your miserable damn day because its not going to amount to a damn thing that really matters.
Like the world is sooooo fuggggggg’up that you hope the Lord returns to Highlander the wicked; notwithstanding the possibility you could be included in the Highlanding you after that video you clicked, bad word u said, lie you told, irresistible you slept next to, with to, onto, 2 times too, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But you’re so mad you think …”I’ll take that risk.”
You’ll take it like Wee-Bey ate the those murder charges for delicatessen bounty and a Fanta.
This movie has me extremely conflicted. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE IT or the therapy co pays it could bring.
I’m that guy that loves to talk about race. And in months past I would have wanted to watch the movie — I’ll explain what happened in months past on some other day. Black Actor, Black Director, Black Writer. It is a veritable wet dream for cooperative economics (ujamaa) maw’fudgers like myself.
My sole reason for not watching is that this style of movie creates so much inner turmoil so much mental anguish so much energy but gives you nowhere to channel it.
Without organized and positive outlets to put that anger. The bitter truth festers in your psyche. And my psychology degree from Netflix documentaries tells me that when mental anguish is present, your brain will start the infamous coping process.
Basically that’s your brain flipping through it’s rolodex of indulgences (think Fresh Prince’s glowing chick-tion-nary) and deciding who’s going to get me laid the quickest:
Will it be
1) Jose Cuervo and Jager bombs.
2) Watching Seasons 4-5 of The Wire because Duquan’s descent is the perfect way to relax your social justice spirit.
3) Sex with Dexter the town murderer
4) Punching Massa’s vicious yet invisible Ghost spirit like Tray in John Singleton’s Boyz In Da Hood
5) Throwing a bowl of pretzels at the tv because your lover wants to control you…………….LIKE A SLAVE!
6) Cursing out your boss and quitting your job because in a moment of passionate anger you figure that if he was living in 1855 he would have been right there cracking that whip.
7) Buying a Two Chainz album and listening too it.
8) Converting to a 5 Percenter and changing your name to Supreme Abundance
9) Convincing yourself that slave suffering was God’s will because Africans worship false idols.
10) yall can suggest a tenth. top ten list are hackey.
I can go on and on with this.
The hardest part about slave era art is getting blacks and non blacks to make the connection between that and decrepid schools, SAT scores, incarceration rates, violent crime, the drug trade, and mistrusts of all things government.
So in an effort to be productive what should I do. Fruitvale Station had my stomach balled up in knots! And Trayvon Martin is fresh in the minds of people across the world. Even a white family from Europe asked me how I felt about it while vacationing in Virginia. And I swear I did not bring it up first.
So my question is where can we channel this energy, am i crazy, or are we sadistically yearning for pain?