African-American Horror Story
Halloween may be over, but the shocking terror of being black in America is a bone-chilling thriller that runs from February to Black History Month. Ghouls and goblins don’t bring the same fright as cops and court dates. Lynching isn’t dead, it’s waiting on parole. And because the devil is a liar, there are more slaves in prison today than in “Roots,” “Amistad” and “Django” combined.
Meanwhile, a “post-racial” society welcomes white people to “have fun” wearing black face while achieving the “trendy” dirty diaper look. There isn’t enough doo-doo brown face paint or an Afro wig big enough to hide you, your kids, your wife or your husband from the ass whooping you deserve.
But the only thing new about white people pretending to be black for shits and giggles is the Juicy J song they twerk to. Before Judy Garland was tricking her way through Oz, she was singing slave songs in pickaninny costumes. Paving that yellow brick road of ratchetness for greasy adolescents with less rhythm than a dying dildo. Miley Cyrus couldn’t be the “queen bitch, supreme bitch” if Lil’ Kim crowned her herself, or Jessica Lange and the rest of the “Witches of Waverly Place” burned each other at the stake.
If only curing racism in this country was as simple as the self-sacrifices of a few Hogwarts rejects. Unfortunately after centuries of believing “white is right day, noon and night,” black people hate themselves better than the KKK. There’s a knight rider crying tears of joy right now reading a meme of a picture Drake walking away from a shadow with the caption, “how light skin niggas be when dark skin niggas wanna rumble.”
Next year, you can keep the costumes, candy and spooky propaganda. Every day I wear the mask, looking like “The Purge,” just to see another day is Halloween.