The Sexy Revolution

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The conversation began with words describing the ass of my boy’s girlfriend’s roommate. Not so interesting topic, right? Now close your eyes and imagine she’s white. The conversation soon ventured down a dark road no one seems to want to discuss: those counterrevolutionary hoodie wearers. Those who claim to have the fire, but blow smoke only.

Yes. We must keep fighting for Trayvon’s case because what happened was wrong. But the so-called “multitasking generation,” coined by me I think, aren’t able to fight for those who haven’t popped up on their facebook newsfeed. And while I do feel a win for Trayvon may equate to a win for us all, I still feel as though we need to fight for us all.

While cars began filling up to head to Sanford to rally around a house, or a statue or on a street, there were teens being killed just two blocks over. But those murders did not pop up on the newsfeed. We can talk about Ervin Jefferson whose name I’ve only seen twice on twitter. We can talk about David Robinson. But we aren’t. That’s not sexy, is it? If their murders don’t increase my own followership, why talk about them? Why defend a dead boy with no airtime? Especially a dead black boy, no matter the circumstances of the case.

If I hadn’t been in Florida, I wouldn’t have gone to Sanford. I could have easily made trouble for the Charlottesville Police Department for shooting a black boy in his back. I did. But it’s easy to type righteousness about a town 850 miles away in a limited box. Why shit where you eat, right?

And I’m remind of one of my favorite Nikki Giovanni poems. I want to meet up with those taking the half-naked photos in fitted hoodies with sexy backdrops and hoop earrings (all in the name of Trayvon), and start the seduction. And without seeing anything wrong with self, they’d look at me and ask “But Darnell, isn’t this counterrevolutionary?”

The revolution is not meant to be sexy.  

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